


Beat Me Black and Blue (Every Wound Will Shape Me)

by Theincrediblesulkmachine



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A good boy, And the real meat of the plot begins, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Come to the dark side, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exploration, Gas Lighting, Gen, Girl Squad - Freeform, H E A V Y A N G S T, Heavy Angst, Here come the generals, Hurt Keith (Voltron), I APOLOGIZE, I Don't Even Know, I hope?, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) Whump, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Lance is a sweetheart, Lets see where this goes, Lotor & his generals, Misery, Misery everywhere, Mostly in passing, Non-Linear Narrative, Not really about romantic relationships, Playing it by ear, Plotting and scheming, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Sentient Voltron Lions, Shiro feels guilty, Shiro is very distressed, Suicidal Thoughts, Suspicion, Tags May Change, Team Voltron Family, Torture, Trauma, Voltron heals all, War with consequences, What Have I Done, Whump, discrepancies in recollection, emotional torture, eventually, i think, loose usage of canon, now, somebody stop me, supportive voltron family, they have keith, this is going to be dark, triggers probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-14 16:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11211492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theincrediblesulkmachine/pseuds/Theincrediblesulkmachine
Summary: Lance had always thought seeing Keith humbled would give him more satisfaction; this was not what he would have ever wished for.Or, where Keith is captured and tortured, and the boy the paladins retrieve isn't really the boy they lost.





	1. My Body's Shaking, There's No Turning Back

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like i should start this thing with an apology to Keith: I am sorry. I love you.
> 
> This will be dark and overbearing as per the theme i want to explore. I cannot assure any happiness coming out of this, so read at your own peril. It might also be triggering, and i apologize if i add something that harms anyone in any way. Feel free to message me and tell me if there are any tags i should be adding as trigger warnings; and also if i need to change the rating from mature to explicit.  
> There will be violence, there will be trauma, there will be a fuckton of swearing; eventually however there will be comfort and rebuilding/recovery of everyones favourite Red paladin. (i hope; at this point im not sure)
> 
> I'm still very much just finding my way around here, so again if you notice anything that could help me improve this, drop me a comment. I'd love to hear from you.  
> Also this is unedited, since i'm really done right now. if you spot any mistakes, please give me a heads up.
> 
> Again, my writing muse is a little bitch, and is impossible to corral when i need it for my dissertation but tortured!keith and the fucker just perks right up. #torturingmyfavouritessinceforever
> 
> Title from Bring me the Horizon- Throne  
> Chapter title- Bullet for My Valentine- Your Betrayal 
> 
> (both songs i was listening to as i wrote/thought of this)

* * *

Despite the way the years spent as Paladins of Voltron had shaped each of them into formidable warriors, Lance and Shiro were exhausted and out of breath when they finally stumbled upon what they had spent tireless months searching for.

It was unpredictably more bitter than sweet.

Lance took in a shaky breath, half-fear, half-relief; He couldn’t make himself look away from Keith despite the small, pained almost-sob he heard Shiro let out.

He was so _still_.

There was no way to soften the sight in front of them: Keith slumped on the floor, partially chained to the wall with his head hanging low, hair a disheveled mass entirely concealing his face. He wasn’t in the rags usually associated to Galra prisoners; it was almost an odd perversion of the paladin armor, black in all the places the suit was white, a deep pulsing indigo where the red accents should have been. It was noticeably sleeker than armor, showing wear and tear, and an obvious lack of actual protection.

It was unsettling, and Lance felt increasingly more on edge every second they spent in this off-kilter prison cell; it was well-lit, airy; even furnished with a bed and hygienic necessities.

Lance wasn’t sure why that bothered him more than his teammate chained- unmoving- to a wall.

Something was very wrong; he could feel it in the insistent prickling at the back of his head, and a low sense of unease trickling through his bond with Blue.

“Shiro.” His voice came out urgent, but with a remarkable evenness that he in no way felt. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

Shiro didn’t seem to hear him, looking very much like a man caught in his own personal hell; his grey eyes were lost, fixated on the red paladin. He staggered forward to Keith, and Lance let out an aborted cry of alarm, eyes belatedly scanning the room for traps, bayard at the ready.

One of them _had_ to keep their head if they wanted to get out of here alive.

Unwillingly, he turned his back to Shiro and Keith in favour of keeping an eye on the exit. It was chillingly silent considering how hard they’d had to fight to reach this room in the centre of one of Galra’s most fortified prisons.

Outside, he could hear the muffled sounds of lasers and destruction, and occasionally feedback from the Paladin comms. He resisted the urge to panic for Pidge and Hunk, tamping it down in favour of an emotionally empty focus.

Pidge and Hunk would be okay. They had to be. Right now he needed to focus on retrieving Keith.

“Keith.” A murmured whisper, and then “ _Lance,”_ Shiro’s voice was a sudden distraught gasp.

Lance half-turned to look over his shoulder, blaster pointed at the door, and had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from screaming in outrage. From the jostling by Shiro trying to frantically free their teammate, Keith’s face was now visible and littered with a myriad of bruises, a bleeding nose, and various small cuts still seeping.

The worst and most demeaning, however, was a deep purple, ominous looking collar that ringed his pale neck.

At a glance, it was some sort of seamless Galra tech, but at some point it was obviously attached to the wall behind Keith judging by the awkward lilt of his head.

Lance hissed viciously at the sight of where it had rubbed his slender neck raw, and was rushing forward to help Shiro, whose hands were increasingly more frantic, without a second thought.

Closer up, it was worse, and only capitalized how unnervingly motionless Keith was. His arms were at an odd angle, speaking of what was at the very least dislocation. He couldn’t see any visible indication of breath.

Lance swallowed, and shoved his trembling fingers under Keith’s nose, wanting to cry with relief when a faint puff of warmth hit it.

It was distressingly weak, and seeing Keith like this- the indomitable hothead brought low- made Lance want to fall apart, allowing the bone-deep jitters to consume him.

One look at a clearly panicking Shiro, however, made his heart sink with a startling realization.

Shiro was in no condition to take charge here; _Lance_ would have to. Between his own deep-seated trauma, and what was an apparently beaten down Keith, Shiro was overwrought.

He hadn’t realized how much Keith’s presence had anchored Shiro, until Keith had been taken. Right now, he wasn’t the Black Paladin, unshakeable and composed; he was a friend, he was family, and unable to dissociate enough to do what was needed.

“Shiro.” Lance barked, panic sharpening his tone in a way he’d feel guilty for later. “Stop! Shaking Keith won’t help.”

Shiro startled, as if he’d forgotten Lance was there, but stilled- the order seemingly reminding him of where they were. “S-sorry.” He sucked in a breath, visibly reining himself in, and as he renewed his attempts to rouse Keith, they were a lot less unsteady.

His words were not. “Keith. Buddy, I _need_ you to wake up.”

Soft, and shaking in a way that would have broken Lance’s heart had he been less focused.

Lance eyed the restraints sharply, they seemed to be the alien equivalent of shackles; not loose but not quite tight either, suspending Keith’s arms on either side of his head by a short chain. He glanced sideways at a softly murmuring Shiro, and didn’t think he was capable of tearing himself away from Keith long enough to focus on slicing through the less than a hands-breadth wide cable.

“Shiro, keep him still.” Lance said, aiming his bayard at the chain, and with a quick calming breath, shot through the first chain with no fanfare. It took three precise shots, but it clattered free easily, and Lance muttered a quick prayer to the gods for not making it blaster proof.

The sudden jerk of gravity on his arm jarred Keith sharply, and he stirred with a soft pained rasp.

Shiro immediately cupped the lost paladin's face, turning it to him, relief blooming on his own. “ _Keith!”_

Responsive. Lance thought with no small measure of relief.

He lifted his bayard, eyeing the other chain for the weakest chink, absently noticing Shiro imploring Keith to open his eyes.

Pushing all external stimuli away, Lance lined up his next shot, only for the calm to shatter when Keith began to scream.

* * *

 

It was dark, but Keith didn’t mind.

The dark was comforting.

Numbing.

Keith didn’t have to remember in the dense dark.

He couldn’t be made to see anything he didn’t want to.

He didn’t have to feel.

Keith always felt too much.

He ached.

He bled.

Keith missed Red.

That sense of connection, of belonging, of knowing his place.

 _Mine._ A rumbling roar, a series of flashing images; an inferno of wrath mounting steadily higher, of burningly fierce love and warmth, a lioness protecting her cub, an abyss of dark deep fear.

Just as Keith started to feel, the connection cut off, smothered in a blanket of lethargy, and the first thing he really registered was the loss.

He was utterly bereft.

Floating in dead space, and after that fleeting curl of warmth, it was no longer calming. It was suffocating.

Keith was too exhausted to even mourn anymore.

Suddenly it shattered, with a piercing lurch to his arm, and he tried to scream but it choked off into a small sob. Everything was too white, too bright; it hurt his eyes, and his heart, knowing he wasn’t free and he never would be.

He was back.

Keith would experience everything, all over again.

Stuck for eternity.

Alone. Adrift. Undying.

An overwhelming deluge of sensations crashed on Keith, and he whimpered, unable to help it.

_Where has your pride gone, paladin?_

Soft and mocking, taunting, prodding, tearing and breaking.

“ _Keith_.”  An unbearably fond, unquestionably familiar voice. Unmistakably relieved.

 _Shiro_. He sobbed again, not knowing if it was in his head, but unable to bring himself to hope. Leave me alone, he thought desperately, the sound twisting his heart into unrecognizable shapes. _Stop fucking with me. Stop bringing them into this._

_Stopstopstopstopstop._

“Keith? Buddy, _please_ open your eyes.” A pleading tone to Shiro’s voice. One he’d never been able to resist when he could.

_What will happen now, boy? Are you going to be rescued?_

 “ _No_.” Keith’s voice broke embarrassingly. They only used Shiro when they really wanted to make a point.

He couldn’t take this. He couldn’t take the ways they would inevitably break Shiro. Not again. Not against his already steadily splintering self.

He was losing. He was losing. He was losing.

“Keith, we’ll get you out of here. It’s over. You’re safe.”

A promise. Soft and kind.

The worst of all.

“Please, _no. Don’t do this._ I don’t know where they _are_.” A small hysterical flurry of words from his mouth.

“Keith. It’s me, _Shiro_.” A hand at his cheek, trembling. A break in Shiro’s voice.

 _No_. It isn’t. _“Please open your eyes.”_

 _“No no no no no_.” A litany at his lips, even as his eyes opened helpless to that soft plea.

Keith was shaking, and Shiro’s eyes were _yellow,_ glowing maliciously. Unendingly.

A mocking laugh, a wicked switchblade smile.

_Oh my little Galran soldier, it is good to be back. I missed you._

He couldn’t find enough to breathe but Keith finally found the air to scream.

* * *

 

Lance startled so badly, the bayard fell out of his hand.

The screaming was like nothing he’d ever heard; especially not from Keith, whose default was to struggle through his pain in stalwart silence.

Lance’s heart twisted painfully in his chest, as Shiro visibly flinched away.

It was pained, coming from obvious despair and misery. It was agony vocalized, loneliness and terror bleeding through in torrents. His voice was rough, breaking and rasping, as if he had torn through a vocal cord.

It was the sound of a desperate man begging for an end.

It was heartrending, and Lance would have rather stabbed himself with Keith’s bayard than hear him scream again.

Keith seemed to run out of air, as he heaved in a lungful of breath and when it devolved into helpless gut-wrenching sobs, Lance found his eyes filling with tears.

“Please please _please.”_ A broken mantra from the boy who had always held himself with such a proud demeanor.

Lance swallowed, and forced himself to choke out “Shiro.”

Shiro’s hands hovered uselessly above Keith who was cowering from touch. His eyes seemed ancient in the instant he turned to look at Lance.

“Cut through the restraints with your arm.”

Shiro looked at his prosthetic and back at Lance, a furrow adding itself to the collection on his forehead. He seemed to understand the desperation in Lance’s voice because he didn’t hesitate before the Galra tech flared violet, and he reached for Keith’s other arm.

Lance took over Shiro’s previous position, and cradled Keith’s face. Keith stiffened, and blinked up at him through unfocused indigo eyes. “Lance?”

“Hey Mullet.” He said softly, not having the strength for reassurances.

Keith swallowed dryly. “Not you too. Run _please, please_ run.” He whispered, “They’ll get you.”

Lance breath hitched, and he stroked a gentle thumb across Keith’s cheek. “I won’t let them.”

“They can’t get you. Not any of you.” Keith’s words had a bleary quality to them. “…too important.”

“You’re important too.” Lance whispered.

 “I’m not anything anymore.” He smiled, small, and his voice was almost clear.

Shiro managed to saw through the first chain, using small precise movements. As the second chain dropped, Keith hissed and tried to pull his arm close to his chest in reflex, and cried out in obvious pain for his efforts.

He caught glance of Shiro’s activated arm, purple light reflecting in his eyes amidst mounting horror.

Lance clutched him close almost instinctively. “Hey, look at me, Keith.”

He did, but he was trembling anew, face drawn.

Lance kept his face free of worry, as Shiro grabbed at the short chain behind Keith’s head, trying to free his neck.

Keith cried out in pain as it chafed his abused neck.

“Shh, Keith. It’s okay. We’ll get you out. Shh.” He found himself settling into the slow, even voice he had always used to console his sisters, when they were scared and upset, over skinned knees, bad falls, break-ups and flying cockroaches.

It had never been as terrifying as what Keith appeared to have gone through.

He had never felt more inadequate.

Lance was afraid to find out what exactly it was, and kept himself from thinking too much.

Keith breathed a little more even, even as his breath hitched every now and often. Lance forced himself to keep talking.

There was a snap, then and Keith collapsed forward straight into his arms.

Shiro clambered to his feet immediately, and seeming to remember himself now that Keith was no longer propped up on the wall like a picture frame. He quickly slung one of Keith’s arms over his shoulder and straightened, as Lance picked up the slack from the other side.

Keith groaned lowly.

“We have you, Keith. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.” Lance repeated, as he dematerialized his bayard with a small, concentrated effort on his own part, unable to lean down to pick it up. “We’re safe.”

He was interrupted, by a slow, sarcastic round of applause.

Shiro and Lanced jumped, and turned to face the door as quick as they could manage without dropping Keith.

Leaning in the doorway, posture entirely nonchalant, was a Galra. He was lean, well-built and easily eight feet tall. His skin was a light violet, hair an unbound mane of silken white. His eyes however, were terrifyingly humanoid; galra gold at the pupil, but with white sclera surrounding it. “Greetings Paladins.” He said, with a small cheery smile, and a jaunty little wave.

Shiro growled, raising his robotic right arm threateningly. “Out of our way, Galra runt.”

Something in the strange Galra’s eyes flashed menacingly at the insult, but his smile only grew more pleasant. “No need to call names, _Champion_.” He said, unfolding gracefully from his lean on the doorframe. “I just wanted to make sure your reunion went well.”

Lance fidgeted uneasily, as Keith made a soft sound at the back of his battered throat.

The Galra’s eyes shifted to Lance, and his amusement grew; eyes crinkling upwards. “My, aren’t you a pretty sight.”

Lance hissed, unable to find words in his fury.

 “Keith here _is_ quite the special one, isn’t he? Half-Galra, half-Terran. He bruises into his Galran skin so wonderfully. It’s quite a vision.”

He eyes Keith’s throat with something akin to hunger, Shiro growls, and Lance wars with wanting to join him, and exercising caution with what is a clearly unknown quantity.

Keith, he reminded himself. _Keith_.

“I enjoyed myself with him. Oh, the sounds he made.” He grinned, and his eyes spark like a livewire.

Shiro roars, and Lance nearly surges forward to strangle the Galra, a slave to the sudden rage in his heart. Through the paladin bonds, he feels an echo of Black and Blue mirroring their paladins.

The only thing that holds them back from attacking, is the entire reason they’re furious in the first place.

Keith.

The Galra beamed at the display, and waved his hand casually. “Just kidding.” His smile dropped suddenly, eyes becoming very sharp, body language shifting. “There’s not much time. The witch won’t be happy if you escape with her toy. You need to get out of here."

Lance staggered a little, in surprise, and exchanged a look with Shiro. “Are y-you with the Blade?”

The Galra smiled, and indicated a sword at his back with a partial unsheathing. The familiar glow of the luxite mineral gleamed out, and he let it slide back in.

Shiro seemed to swallow his anger with a little difficulty, but nodded with respect, if a little grudgingly at the Galra. “Thank you for your service.”

“Paladins, it’s been an honour playing with you.” He said, through a razor sharp smile, putting a hand to his heart and inclining his head. “You must go.” He indicates a small passage with a flick of his wrist. “That one isn’t used by sentries, you can probably leave unnoticed, I’ll hold the soldiers off.”

Keith let out a small distressed sound and sagged heavily. Shiro and Lance exchanged another worried look, and start forward with a last nod at the Marmorite.

Lance held a hand up to his helmet, trying to focus the comms. “Pidge, do you copy?”

It took a few minutes of walking down the hallway, but the comms crackled to life with a panicking Pidge screaming “ _where were you guys?”_

“Uh- can we talk about that later, we’ve got our hands kind of occupied and that isn’t great for fighting, but did I mention- we found him. We _found_ Keith.” Lance said hastily, babbling to cut through their tirade.

“We need an extraction.” Shiro said, with a small smile, putting an end to Lance’s diatribe, and it’s profoundly relieving seeing the Black Paladin return.

Lance smiled down at Keith’s head; their _pride_ was together again. Whatever came, they’d face it together.

“Roger that, Black and Blue. Lets bring our boy home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only the beginning...


	2. Stay Away; Those Two Words I Can't Obey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is blazing red quintessence through and through. Reckless, impulsive, brave.
> 
> Or, the flashback chapter on how they lost him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, i did a thing???
> 
> Big BIG thankyou's to everyone who read, left kudos and commented such supportive things. YOU GUYS WERE SO INSANELY MOTIVATIONAL? I wasnt expecting such an awesome response. I was writing for this fic before i knew it, and then my fingers slipped and i had 4k words? Its all thanks to you guys. 
> 
> Please, keep my motivational levels this high? I enjoyed myself so much with this chapter. Hope you do too x
> 
> (I'd like to mention that a lot of the inspiration of the quintessence types, and the genius behind "black quintessence/leadership is in everyone" comes from Nika's (YouAreInAComaWakeUp /Nikanaiko) story, Ignorance is Bliss. If you haven't read it, you totally should; its a treasure. (and so are they)
> 
> This is the setting before the real angst begins, don't be fooled by any levity you may perceive.

* * *

 

It had been a routine raid; the boys and their lions all chasing after one more of Pidge’s intensely motivated schemes to find their family.

The day Zarkon had fallen, Pidge had found key information linking Matt to a fringe rebel group.

They had been so excited that they had rushed-tackled Keith in a bruising hug.

“Whoa, Pidge, hey” Keith half mumbled, feeling more touched and flustered than he’d like to admit.

“Keith, I found Matty. I found him, he’s _alive.”_ They had tears in their eyes, and the smallest, most sincere smile he’d ever seen on their face; not even the slightest touch of sarcasm or irony in their expression.

They looked younger, more their age, and Keith had felt the awkwardness melt at the sight. He hugged the short paladin to him, gently, and willfully pretended he hadn’t heard the small sobs as they clutched him back.

It was the most focused yet hopeful, Keith had seen the youngest paladin. Amidst the general cheer of a defeated tyrant, it was easy to get buoyed up and believe everything would be okay.

It made him feel all the more fiercely protective for them, unwilling to let this chance slip away like every other.

Unwilling to be complacent, where an Empire still stood; ten thousand years in the making. It seemed he was the only one still holding on to his paranoia with the palpable enthusiasm hanging over the castle.

It made Keith feel only the slightest bit crazy, but he was mostly accustomed to it; It still stung a little when Lance made fun of him for it, taking to calling him the _Psycho Mullet from Space Street_.

(It was a little embarrassing that Keith had no idea what that was supposed to mean; space didn’t have streets. Galaxy ways and nebulae maybe?)

Shiro manfully tried to keep his eagerness under wraps, but Keith could read his oldest friend even from under his veneer of Calm Leader and innumerable scars; even he was excited and worried in equal measure. Shiro really wanted to find Matt, and not just because he felt responsible.

It made the kind cheerful boy he had known at the Garrison really shine through.

Shiro craved normality, and someone who would understand what being with the Galra was truly like. As the eldest, more by nature than the less than a handful of years, he craved camaraderie not based on command and respect, nor having to perpetuallystep in as- Keith’s- broken impulse control.

He craved the boy who had known him as beyond a trailblazer.

After Shiro had disappeared, in the post-battle haze, Keith had taken up the mantle of the Black Lion as requested. It had been a miserable mess; the lions just as disconcerted by the switched roles;

Red had refused to talk to him for a week; more than furious with Keith for his desertion. In his heart, he knew she understood and would eventually forgive him. It hurt a little, being away from Red and having her mad at him too. But, it was their way, the ones who held red quintessence, to use anger to guard their soft molten hearts.

It was a constant struggle to Keith, to be more than his own knee-jerk reactions where instinctual impulse had been the only constant guiding force in his life.

Black was so different from Red and Keith; more regal and commanding, cooler and far more distant- a natural born leader. Keith had to fight his own nature, to calm his emotive responses to the few he loved ferociously, enough to set the world on fire to get to them.

He had to fight his stubbornly kind heart, and rash temper, and inability to stand injustice.

He had to fight to understand that a leader must be one step removed from his team to be able to lead them.

He had to fight to tamp down his need to be accepted, when to belong was all he had wanted his entire life.

Black asked him to give it up, and looked down on him, for all that he was; for his inability to let go.

In part, it was because of his Galran blood, and the lingering trauma Black retained from Zarkon.

That had hurt the most; being rejected for who he was intrinsically.

Red had growled at Black in surprising insubordination, and pounced at him, after one particular power struggle between the temporary Black Paladin and the lion. It had been overwhelming, the two sentient consciences melding through a singular conduit: Keith.

Years of years of experiences and memories assaulted him, as the Black and Red lions struggled in a mesh of snarls and claws. It was Altea; it was Zarkon; it was Alfor, and Allura as a child. It was loss, betrayal and a deep seated hurt, and a distressingly internalized self-destructive anger.

It was too much, too fast and Keith was drowning.

Then there was a brown skinned hand clasping his and pulling him ashore. Keith gasped as if he had truly been drowning, and Lance had put an arm around his shoulder and braced him till he had surfaced.

Through it, he reached a small measure of peace; thanks to Lance and his fledgling connection to Red.

The blue eyed boy had stepped into the fray, as if the sight of two mecha-Lions and an incapacitated, thoroughly overwhelmed Paladin wasn’t terrifying. He placed a hand on Keith’s shoulder and roared; an echo of Blue powering the sound.  

His having done so for Keith, Red’s Paladin, didn’t go unnoticed by her; Red stopped to listen.

Where the three consciences met, there was a balance. Blue’s spirit, the most malleable and accommodating of Voltron’s lions stood her ground, and with the help of her equally compassionate Paladin, forced her stubborn siblings to a commonality: their love for their Paladins.

Black, who would do _anything_ for the gentle human he had found, the one as scarred as he. The one who was the complete contradiction of everything they fought against.

Red, who could and _would_ overcome whatever she had to for the cub she had claimed as hers.

Blue who would protect hers, _and_ theirs. Her siblings, and her Paladin, and their collective found family.

Blue calmed Red’s ire, and soothed Black’s defensive edges. Yellow and Green, the least confrontational of the lions offered their support.

Black began to accept Keith, and Keith began to understand Black. They were bound, and the head of Voltron was more than the Red Paladin, or his red quintessence, or any one kind of quintessence. Black was the absorption of all the quintessence types; the unifier. He bonded with Black over their love for Shiro, but it grew when he became aware that everyone had the potential to utilize black quintessence.

Keith began to understand, and began to learn traits from and of his fellow Paladins. Compassion and Caution, Curiosity and Challenge, Camaraderie and Compromise, Command and Composure.

The Black Lion was still too much for Keith, with his limited familial experience and extended interactions with people, and he missed the instinctual ease of being with Red; the one he was truly meant for; the one who recognized him as part of themselves.

The days when Keith struggled under the weight of his own grief, and helplessness, aching loneliness and crumbling foundation, Lance helped keep him standing.

When inevitably Keith and Lance butted heads, for they shared something undeniably kindred, it was the kind hearted Yellow Paladin that shoved them together, and forced resolution.

Allura was still the most complicated; the Galra heritage being a tricky situation he couldn’t blame her for. She tried, though, and Keith was quickly coming to realize that what he and Allura shared was a core of steel; unmovable, unflinching, and pragmatic. Long nights poring over the nebulae had definitely forged a friendship beyond the lions and the war.

They had all grown exponentially as partners and a team, by the time Keith finally held enough of the black quintessence to fully bond and form Voltron; in that instant of ten souls becoming one, something clicked, and they knew instinctually as was the domain of their Red turned Black Paladin, where their lost friend was.

Shiro was fortunately unharmed, if disoriented, adrift in the ethereal realm where their spirit bonds existed in near-stasis.

(It had been the impact of the last vestiges of Zarkon’s shattering bond with Black against the completion of Shiro’s fully realized bond; the spiritual excess had launched Shiro into the metaphysical realm. It took them Voltron, in that moment of spiritual clarity, to retrieve the true leader.)

Now back in their original lions, Keith at least understood Shiro’s need for an equal who wasn’t their intimidatingly beautiful- for all intents and purposes- Commanding Officer or her Royal Advisor.  Power disparity was an alienating thing.

Keith was determined never to let the hope in Pidge and Shiro’s eyes flicker, and in a fashion, he succeeded.

* * *

 

In the end, it had been a not-so routine rescue mission, involving far more firepower on both sides: the fringe rebels against the remnants of a desperate, ruthless Empire.

It was a tense situation: Blue and Green had been shot down, with no quintessence to help power them back up immediately. Yellow was involved in dragging them to safety, his powerful jaws the only solution. The castle’s crystal was unable to provide enough munitions to protect the Alteans inside, as well as the precariously situated Black Lion, the one directly tasked with retrieving Matt Holt, caught in a tractor beam.

“Shiro _, get out of there_. We can’t lose both of you.” Pidge’s voice was a little faint, obviously torn, trapped in a defunct lion.

Keith felt a twist in his core at the palpable catch in their voice.

Lance was arguing with Hunk to let go of them, and go help Shiro, a little vehemently. “Hunk, come _on_."

“ _Lance_.” Allura’s voice was regretful, even as she reproached the Blue Paladin.

“Pidge, we’re sorry.” It was Coran’s voice that really broke through to Keith, the soft remorse slicing through his single-minded focus on the battlements

He measured the Black quintessence in him, he really did, and he knew the strategic thing to do was retreating to fight another day, especially since Matt was not immediately in danger. He considered his options, but he realized withdrawing and hurting Pidge by losing Matt Holt was not one of them.

 When it came down to it, his red quintessence was stronger than the collection of quintessence he had amassed, and cherished. His family would _always_ win priority over the chances of his own survival.

He had struggled too long to find them, to leave them hanging on.

He felt the beginnings of awareness, and alarm, ripple through the other Paladins through their linked minds.

“Sorry guys.” He said, cutting comms for the time being, to muted shouts, as he recklessly veered Red straight into the massive battlecruiser that was projecting the laser, splicing as many of the smaller fleetships with Red’s jawblade as he blew past.

He launched himself out of the Red Lion’s mouth and through the hole their crash had caused, straight into the cruiser.

He kept ignoring her growled protests, seeing as she continued to damage the surrounding armada, despite him asking her in an afterthought to cover Yellow instead.

She couldn’t really complain about him when she was as stubborn as she was.

He felt her worry and love though, underneath the anger, and it soothed him.

He was doing the right thing. The battlecruiser was a mid-level rank, judging by the insignia and size.

He could take them.

Keith was proven right as he cut a pretty straightforward line through the main command, slicing into sentries tirelessly; He sealed himself in as he commandeered the stolen ship’s substantial firepower into destroying its own airships.

He felt a rush of exhilaration; this, the adrenaline, the risky suicide missions; _this_ was what he was made for. Not the decisive leader in a war council; he was no general. He was the soldier they sent to do what no one else was foolish enough to try.

He laughed a little as he shot down the last of the potentially harmful ships, next time, _next time,_ he’d beg Shiro and Black to take Lance instead; the Blue Paladin was undeniably better at plotting and tweaking grand schemes. He was happier being Red, war contained in human form.

It was enough chaos for Black to escape the trajectory, taking Matt with him.

Keith grinned in wicked triumph, and switched the communications back on, laughing despite the yelling- mixed annoyance and exulted victory- he heard in feedback.

“I’m heading back.” He assured his team, to Shiro’s exasperated sigh, and a faint twinge of Black echoing that sentiment in the mindspace he had occupied; Lance’s snide remarks about his glory-seeking ass; Hunk’s comforting concern; Allura’s sharp reprimand, and Coran’s easy manner soothing over all of them, reminding them of their success; Pidge’s quiet overwhelmingly grateful “ _Thank you, Keith.”_

He felt Red’s pride, and he mentally returned her wordless representation of victory with a beaming grin. He felt her take off to collect him.

That was all he had time to register, before the doors to the control room were brutally smashed down and Keith was swarmed by a very different caliber of Galra soldiers.

He shouted in alarm, hearing a cacophony of concern break out in response over the headset.

He didn’t have the time to respond.

There were seven in number, advancing in a reverse V-formation, with blank featureless masks, dressed in a deep onyx bodysuits with indigo accents, and disturbingly synchronized attack patterns.

They attacked in waves of three, and tired from the preceding fighting, he wasn’t at full capacity. He staggered back, immediately put on defensive against the overwhelming offence. His strikes made no contact, easily parried, and he was being pushed further and further into a corner.

He cried out as one slashed viciously across the Trials of Marmora inflicted wound across his shoulder, and his left arm crumpled uselessly, as if disabled. The second slice knocked off his helmet, and it smashed into the far wall of the ship, taking the shouts of his friends with it.

He switched his bayard to his right and lashed out, but in his moment of agony, the seventh; the one who he had overlooked in the chaos, had slipped past his defenses, and was behind him.

He grabbed Keith from the hair at the nape of his neck, and yanked upwards.

Keith howled in pain, and his bayard slipped out of his grasp. He thrashed with all his might, trying desperately for freedom, but the taller soldier merely laughed mockingly at his glancing strikes, and pulled more viciously.

The soldier had simply been strolling after the six attacking soldiers, the point of the V, casually not paying attention. Keith felt incredibly _stupid_ for having overlooked him in favour of the louder threat.

He should have known _better._

Caught up in self-congratulation and short term success, he had forgotten that he _knew_ better.

He was thrown viciously away from the Galran, and landed in a crumpled heap, before he could scramble to his feet, he was pushed down by the others. Two held his arms, pulling in the opposing directions with maximum strength, as if they intended to rip off his limbs. Another kicked his knees out from under him. The fourth held down his head, in prostration. He struggled and snarled and spit and hissed, but they were too strong, and he was overwhelmed.

“Kneel before your Prince, Halfbreed.”

Keith felt Red roar her outrage, her mute _my paladin bows to none,_ and her consequently more frantic flight. The afterimage of residual black quintessence broadcasted Black’s concern back to him.

Keith worried about how much of his pain _anger_ fear Shiro could feel reverberating back through the bond.

The Galran approached Keith and easily removed his featureless mask revealing a handsome face. He smiled pleasantly, fully gold eyes arctic by contrast; pale violet skin, and pointed ears in stark contrast to the wash of silky white hair.

Altean hair.

Keith felt a horrifying sense of dread curl in his stomach. _Prince_ , they had said.

His mind, wired to make hasty jumps in between knowledge and instinct made the connection.

Haggar had a son.

Zarkon had an _heir._

 _Red._ He howled, mentally projecting his realization to her frantically. _Go back **. Don’t come for me,** It’s not safe. Go **back**_. _Tell the others._

She snarled back furiously, as if to drown out what he was telling her.

The Galran prince, crouched by Keith’s head, and traced a knuckle down his cheek.

Keith attempted to bite off his finger, only to have his head slammed into the floor by the fourth Galran.

He groaned, but didn’t take his eyes off the Prince.

He grinned suddenly at his defiance, and it was genuinely amused, glowing yellow eyes softening. “I like your spirit, Paladin.” He stood, with lithe grace.

The last thing Keith felt was a foot slamming viciously into his face, Red’s reverberating roar in his head, the unmistakable sensation of a wormhole hooking itself into his navel, and a softly murmured. “Welcome _home,_ mongrel.”

* * *

 

Keith woke, a little dizzy, and a lot disoriented. He jerked violently, uselessly. He was restrained to a metallic chair, cold and biting into his exposed flesh.

They had taken his armour, leaving him barefoot, in only his jeans.

He yanked against the bindings viciously, hissing as it pulled at the wounds from his earlier fight, rubbing his wrists raw.

Red, he remembered with sudden crashing horror. Keith searched for her presence at the back of his mind; He didn’t know whether he was more relieved or disappointed she wasn’t there. On one hand it meant she hadn’t been caught, on the other it meant he had no means of escape.

The best picture, however, Keith knew was that Voltron was safe, and functional.

He stilled his efforts to break free when he heard footsteps; mind mechanically repeating a rhythm back to him, a timed tapping of fingers; Shiro’s analysis of the cycling shifts.

He tallied it in his head, as he allowed his head to droop forward, emulating unconsciousness.

“… concentrated enough to take down Deuebingerphlants. The human runt will be out a while.”

“…even the Champion couldn’t resist it… and that beast was twice this little…”

Keith felt a small twinge of irritation at the chatter from the patrolling guards; it was overshadowed by amusement though; if they were expecting him to be docile because of his human appearance, it meant his Galra-DNA wasn’t common knowledge.

When the Paladins came, he would be aware and ready to make a break for his armour.

* * *

 

Keith hadn’t been disturbed in a while, and his exhausted body had pulled him into a restless sleep when he felt the impact of a crash rattle the ship, before he heard the guards devolve into chaos and a mess of alarm, and instantly startled into awareness.

He felt a grin pull at his lips: the cavalry had arrived. Keith couldn’t feel Red, but that was easily explainable as a side-effect of the drug in his system, or she hadn’t been brought along.

When the door slammed open, agitated guards running in amidst shouts of “The Prince said to secure the prisoner, to bring him to His Highness.”

He kept his paralyzed act up until they were close within his range: he shot to his feet, and used the momentum of the metal chair to body slam the closest guard. He toppled with a pained cry, hitting the floor and not getting back up. Without a minute wasted, Keith snatched up his blaster awkwardly in one of his bound hands, and reversed his body weight to do the same to the other guard.

The recoil through the metal chair hurt his back a little, but that was a concern for another day. The third guard had tried to shoot at him, but Keith merely ducked, allowing it to rebound off the metal. He felt the slightest give in the frame behind him, and threw himself with all his strength into the wall.

The chair fell apart, although the manacles, and metal arms remained clinging to his forearms. He looked down at them, for a spare second, before shrugging and using them like an amalgamation of arm guards and batons. The third bastard was out before he knew it.

Keith grinned to himself; stupid complacent fuckers, had they honestly expected to keep him down when his legs were free, and an unbolted chair?

He gave himself a shake, and snuck warily, out the door, wondering the best way to locate his bayard and armour, preferably before he ran into a crowd of blaster drones.

 _Think._ He reminded himself, the ship wasn’t overly large, and some of the guerilla tactics, and hit and runs they’d managed while Shiro was still AWOL, had involved the infiltration of similar rank ships.

There was always an arsenal next to or near the CO’s chambers: and the CO was always involved in the offense when Voltron was in the picture.

His best bet would be to head to the central wing, to the Prince’s chambers.

* * *

 

His progress had been slower than he would have liked, but Keith made it mostly undetected save some drones, which he had quickly taken out with the blaster gun he had stolen.

He checked the surrounding hallway rapidly, not wanting to extend any hits his team would take for him, and darted into the room.

It was dark, and Keith frowned, a little on edge as he stepped in.

The door clanged shut, and the lights flooded on.

The Prince was sprawled on a high-backed chair at the back of the room, lazy and content, right next to his bayard and armour. He grinned, wide and a little wild. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Keith eyed him warily, knowing very well his escape had been blocked, but deliberating if he could take the Prince, now that it was just them.

“I thought it’d be sooner.” He said, a mock-pout pulling at his mouth, as he brushed his hair back from his neck. “I do so hate waiting.”

Keith tensed, and raised the gun at the Prince, who merely raised an elegant eyebrow at him. “How terribly rude.”

Keith growled, and inched forward. “Back away, and I won’t shoot you in the neck.”

The Prince’s eyes brightened, and he stood in a willowy movement. “You have the fire of _Gal_ within your blood.”

He took a step forward and Keith let loose a warning shot; it seemed to go through the Prince as he only kept walking forward.

A little alarmed, Keith opened fire, only to feel the weight of a blade at his throat and the Prince vanishing into a plume of smoke from in front of him.

He stilled, as the very familiar edge of his own luxite blade dug into his throat, held almost deceptively casually by the Galran.

“I have to say, I’m a little disappointed. You seemed like you’d put up more of a fight.” He almost crooned into Keith’s ear.

The Red Paladin had to actively fight not to shudder. He could feel the hard lines of tense exhilaration in the body behind him, and he _knew_.

The Prince enjoyed _this_ ; the games, the chase, the challenge, the fight. He had likely set up the drug, knowing Keith would take his chances for his things; that he would deliver himself to the Galran at the expense of his chance of escape.

Foolish fucking _idiot_ , Keith cursed himself angrily.

The pressure of the knife would slit his throat before he could shoot. “What. Do. You. Want?” he bit out, tersely.

“Me?” the Prince asked, almost softly, as if surprised Keith needed to ask. “I just want to get to know you better.”

 _“Enough games”,_ Keith growled, and prepared to lash out, despite the knife at his jugular.

“None of that now.” The Prince said politely as if inquiring about his health, just as he slammed the hilt of the luxite dagger sharply into the back of Keith’s head.

“ _Let’s have some fun.”_

Then, blackness.

 

* * *

 


	3. Don't Take Your Eyes Off The Trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the relief of finding Keith, none of the Paladins had truly anticipated all the ways that nothing would and could be the same.
> 
> Or, where Keith is undeniably different, and everyone despairs and blames themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no explanations for how many words I've churned out for this; it makes me so happy that you guys are so great about reaching out and motivating me. The comments go a long way in nudging the writing muse forward, and i genuinely read every single one with a huge grin on my face. Each and every one of you has made my day in one way or another.  
> I love discourse so feel free to reach out here, or on my tumblr. 
> 
> (If i worked half as lovingly on my thesis project (and i'm an architecture student; which to those in the know should say it all) i'd be slaying at life)
> 
> I also have no excuses; my heart hurt a lot writing this, so i can only hope some of that conveys across to you wonderful people reading this. Let me know how you felt?

* * *

 

The Black Lion was easily the least vocal of the lions of Voltron, preferring always to show as opposed to verbally explaining. It suited his temperament; the calm, patient leader who allowed a certain freedom in the interpretation of his guiding quintessence. He was least likely to jump directly into confrontation without a strategy in place, rarely emotional or headstrong like his siblings.

The furious roar he let out when Shiro and Lance clambered on- a semi-conscious Keith slung between them- was anything but calm and non-confrontational.

Shiro felt a snarl of barbed wire unfurl in his gut at the sound.

The few Galran soldiers who had managed to give chase to the Paladins skittered back in transparent fear as Black roared again, mechanical body tensed to pounce.

Shiro hadn’t seen Black like this before; not even when Zarkon had assaulted their bondspace on the astral realm, and that in itself had been a rage to behold. Betrayal was a powerful kindling.

This, however, was triggered instinct; an attack on his pride, one that had temporarily been even more his than the others. Black was getting louder and angrier by the instant, as his proximity to Keith allowed him a better look through the faint traces of their lingering bond. He growled and snarled, and the soldiers caught up in his wrath met quick, merciless ends.

Shiro and Lance exchanged wary glances, as they strapped Keith into the pilot seat, and grappled for something to hold on to.

He knew; it did not bode well for Keith that Black was this agitated.

A small part of Shiro felt the same way; a desire to rip the air from the lungs of everyone who had a hand to play in how Keith looked; small and so fragile, collapsed into the pilot chair, in a way his stubborn ego would never have allowed him… before.

To watch them struggle for air and suffocate.

Shiro wouldn’t feel any _real_ remorse.

He wanted to unleash his wrath on the heavens for allowing this; first him, now Keith; a boy who had never deserved any of the hand the world had given him.

He remembered the way Keith had eyed him mistrustfully, that fateful day at the Garrison, when Shiro had extended his hand to help him up. Indigo eyes asking _,_ sharply, _what’s in it for you?_ How slowly he had warmed up to him, jaded and suspicious, until their relationship had grown to showcase how intensely Keith felt for everything he held dear.

The notion of leaving for Kerberos without Keith had felt like leaving his right arm behind. Not for the first time, Shiro felt immeasurable guilt for what his disappearance must have wrought in Keith. More so than the Galra, that’s what he regretted.

He’d so rarely known kindness; it had taken Keith months to open up to the residents of the Castle of Lions; but when he had, the strength and purity of his love, his urge to protect, his every move had been for them.

It was for Pidge- and Shiro, he knew how easily Keith had seen through his need to find Matt- that he had made that daring, horribly impulsive break-in.

They still didn’t _know_ what had happened; just that it had worked, Red had taken off to retrieve him, and at the last minute, he had cried out in pain, and there was the sound of a scuffle, and a wormhole had taken their Paladin from them.

Just _gone_.

Six months, six _months._

He took in a shaky breath, shoving a hand in his bangs to tug _yank_ tear, he didn’t know; Lance reached out, putting a supportive hand on his arm, and pulled his hand gently away.

Shiro leveled a small grateful smile at the Blue Paladin, and forcibly shook himself out of the miasma of misery and anger- _fear,_ his mind whispered- and reminded himself this wasn’t about him, it was _Keith._

 _Black,_ Shiro called out across the bond, _I’m sorry. We can’t risk this, we have to go._

The image of maelstroms of wind engulfed in fire he received in reply meant that Black would rather tear down the entire prison for its part to play.

_He’s **hurt.**_

Black stilled, tail twitching in tense fury, let out one last snarl that sounded more frustrated than one would expect from a mechanical Lion, sentient or not. He took off, but viciously extended claws ensured that the airstrip was torn along with him.

Lance shuddered a little, face drawn and pale, fingers entangled and pulling almost savagely, “That bad, huh?” He glanced over to Keith, who was worryingly thin, enough that his cheekbones cast sharp relief on his hollowed cheeks.

Shiro crossed his arms, worried frown pulling at his brow. He had felt a faint echo, an aftershock of confusing images that had to have been from Keith. He hadn’t been able to really comprehend it, but the blurring panicked nature of the thoughts, the distress, the anguish, the _defeat,_ that hadn’t needed a visual to come across.

For the first time in years, Shiro felt a little helpless, and a lot closer to tears.

* * *

The whole team was waiting anxiously at the hangar when Black touched down.

Lance watched as Shiro carefully lifted Keith in his arms, feeling his heart ache at the little pained groan Keith let out.

He looked so small, and Lance felt ashamed for every second he had ever wanted to see Keith put down and humbled. This was never what he had wished for.

Larger than life Keith, untouchable Keith, proud Keith, exasperated sarcastic Keith, harshly pragmatic Keith, all those things that Lance had been so incensed by, so envious of, he’d give his _soul_ to see again.

Remembering the fragile way he had smiled, torment and fear screaming in those unworldly eyes, said so softly, _I’m not anything anymore;_ Lance didn’t know how much of that Keith had survived.

Lance followed Shiro down, and saw from his vantage point; the way Pidge ran forward relieved tears in their eyes- only seeing their returned brother-in-arms before it all registered: the distinct despair in Shiro’s face, the way he held Keith like he was delicate, Keith’s battered and bruised appearance; the way they froze, like the ground had been pulled out from below them, paling; He saw Allura stiffen, eyes widening; pulling defensively into herself, arms wrapping around her stomach as if trying to prevent herself from falling apart; He saw Hunk stagger backwards, the joy in his face falling and shattering into tiny irretrievable pieces; He saw Matt categorize everything in his sharp way, mouth tightening, face blanching; Coran just turned to stone, eyes caught many millennia away.

Most prominently, he saw and felt the way Red’s barrier dropped instantly as she came to life, sensing her paladin within her grasp. He saw her jolt to her feet, glowing eyes a frantic sunburst, and roar louder than anything he’d ever heard before. It was anguish, it was anger, it was alarm; it was the indescribable pain of a mother unable to help her child.

Lance winced, a tremor jolting through him that was not just his own; he felt Blue’s sad gentle presence touch him inside their bond, softly consoling. As the tears fell, he felt them mirror in all the Paladins, all the lions, in their collective bond. The shame, the guilt, the pain, the way they felt _adrift_ ; realities of their world shaken.

Keith who they had always counted on to always be the first to fight, the first to get back on his feet, the one who never ever gave up.

Broken.

Keith had risked himself for them, and they…

They had failed him.

* * *

 

Shiro flinched at the desperate sound that erupted from Red; it wasn’t a roar so much as a vocalization of an incomprehensible pain.

At some level, through their forged bonds, it echoed through all of them.

She came at him, and the hangar shook with unrestrained tremors from the thundering alien warship; she stopped, and suddenly seemed to still.

_What if he doesn’t forgive me for abandoning him?_

The touch was foreign to his mind, a wild burning inferno, a forest-fire of emotion and action, one that burned within just as much as outwards; in a way, it was reminiscent of Keith, and his temperament at the Garrison, before Kerberos, he realized with a wistful pang of nostalgia.

This was the first time Red had reached out to Shiro, and he realized it was a recognition as the Black Paladin, as someone who Keith trusted implicitly, no barriers in between.

(He felt the sentiment ricochet in the bond, the guilt of having failed him, the fear of being shunned and hated for it. He felt it resonate with the pit in his stomach.)

Shiro couldn’t find the words to say, to Red, to his team. He just wanted to shatter, splinter without being seen. He felt that failure weigh on him, adding to the rest of his shortcomings as a leader.

_He had failed._

Black let out a sound that was almost a whine, sad and commiserating. As the heads of this pride, they had failed. They had failed. _They had failed._

He crouched, lowering Keith gently to the ground; an offering to Red, who sent him a wordless vision of gratitude. She curled around him, tightly, as if she was a much smaller being, completely enveloping him in her metal embrace, until not even a hair on his head was visible.

* * *

 

Keith woke to a warmth he had missed so acutely, it had been an ache in his bones.

He must be dreaming.

No.

This had to be a trick.

Another hoax, another attempt to find information; a new trick to lull him into a false sense of security; to break him.

Keith’s eyes snapped open, but he was unable to see anything but red. _Red?_

A purr reverberated within him, around him, and he struggled with his fickle heart crashing in tidal waves of relief. The hope, the joy; both were the most dangerous weapons they used against him.

_It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real._

He remembered vaguely; flickering images of Lance and Shiro rescuing him, Shiro’s voice so soft, so relieved; Lance’s face so kind and gentle; they had been so real.

_It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real._

Keith sobbed, as he pushed his fists into his temples trying to will away the images; this wasn’t the first time _they_ had shown him visions of being rescued, being saved. It only hurt more when he finally resurfaced from his pathetic dreams of liberation.

His will wasn’t what it used to be.

_It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real._

He wound his fingers into his hair and yanked, mercilessly, the pain would remind him, it would ground him, help him find the line to reality.

_It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real._

Keith felt the purring sound around him turn ashamed, though the warmth at the base of his skull intensified in comfort and chiding. This was the most vivid of all the hallucinations; how had they managed to target the bond so well?

Had he broken under interrogation? Had he spilled the secrets he had been fighting with everything he had remaining? _Had he endangered his team, his universe?_

The actual universe?

_No, no, no, no, no, no._

It wasn’t possible.

_I just wanted to make sure your reunion went well._

He felt tears prickle his eyes, and flow freely.

He had no more strength to feel ashamed.

It _wasn’t_ real.

He had known that, but why did it still hurt so much to believe?

It meant he had spoken of the universe’s last hope. He had revealed it to the enemy.

Despite everything, _everything_ , Keith had let them down.

He had failed his family.

This was why he was alone.

_Better left alone._

_My Paladin._ The words cut, like a dagger to the heart. They were pained, regretful, and a little wrecked.

How was he supposed to stay strong when they used what he treasured most against him?

_Red._

He wasn’t strong enough.

Voltron had chosen wrong.

He was responsible for the Universe’s final fall.

_You are strong; I could have hoped for nothing better._

He didn’t want to wake from this dream.

_Red, I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

Too weak.

_I am sorry, cub mine._

Keith swallowed, and wondered if there was a way to end his existence before the Prince could use him further. It was the last shred of dignity he still could grant himself.

A growl in his head.

He laughed, amidst the hysterical sobs. This was the realest of them all. It would be the kindest way to die.

The illusion of being loved.

Red roared, and he felt his heart break into a million more pieces.

If only this was _real_.

* * *

 

Lance was curled into Hunk’s comfortable side, drained.

They all were. It was easy to see in the way Hunk sagged against the space-kitchen counter, hands shaking too much to fittingly whip the batter of whatever recipe he was stress-baking.

It was audible in Pidge’s frantic tapping on their keyboards, up to their neck in alien tech.

It was palpable in the weight on Shiro’s shoulders, looking out into blank empty space.

A roar ripped through the tense silence, and as if it had been a cue they had been waiting for, they ran to the hangar.

Red was still wrapped around her Paladin, but the sounds trickling through were heartrending.

Small choking sobs, interspersed with defeated laughter.

Lance didn’t think he could have heard anything worse.

“Keith!”

The sounds were forcibly cut off, as they approached.

Red rumbled, but unfurled to reveal her Paladin. He leaned back against her, warily eyeing them as he attempted to put some distance between them.

It killed Lance. He reached out a tentative hand, slow and measured in pace. “Keith, it’s us. You’re safe.”

Keith narrowed his eyes, and it was the most like himself Lance had seen him.

“S-stay away. Haven’t you fucked with me enough?”

“Keith,” Shiro’s face was falling, and it was equally difficult to watch. “It’s _us_.”

 _He will not listen._ Red’s voice was faint, miserable, in Lance’s head.

Lance winced as Keith backed further away, shoving his back almost ferociously into Red’s flank. It had to have hurt, but he didn’t make a sound.

“We came for you, Keith. Remember? We cut you loose, and you told me to run away?” Lance said tentatively.

Keith’s frown deepened, mistrust etching in the in-between spaces. He held himself tighter, as if trying to occupy less space against Red.

Lance swallowed, and switched tacks. “Always trying to keep the glory for yourself, huh, Mullet?”

“ _Lance.”_ Pidge and Shiro hissed, in tandem.

He raised his other palm to them, the universal sign for _stop. “_ Think about someone else for _once_ , maybe _I_ wanted to blow up those space ships.”

Keith’s frown slipped a little, face growing confused; unsure.

“The number of times we have to watch you run head-first into danger; do you have any idea how we feel, you _dumb stupid fuck_?” He took a step forward, towards Keith, helpless to the emotion seeping into his voice, the very real anger and fear.

 Keith swallowed, shoulders falling a little. His face becoming more open, less guarded.

“Why do you keep terrifying _us_? Haven’t we lost _enough_?” Lance raised his voice a little, anger growing, and this foray into anger seemed to relax Keith. He let his arms fall from their defensive position in front of his torso. Lance took another step forward, within arms’ reach now

“You know what it was like when we lost Shiro, why didn’t you think, _you stupid fucker?”_

Lance saw Shiro flinch in his periphery, and swallowed the guilt. _“You are a fucking shithead, Keith Kogane.”_

Keith laughed abruptly, and the sound was light and familiar, and with that Lance threw himself into Keith, holding on with a desperation he didn’t want to admit to.

Keith startled, and while he didn’t do anything to hug him back, he didn’t push him away. 

That felt like a win. Lance felt something relax in him, and he added, “Your haircut is still terrible.”

Keith stilled, and then said in a very low voice. “You’re different, today.”

Lance froze, and pulled back a little. “ _Today?_ ”

Keith looked like he regretted saying anything and dropped his head into Lance’s shoulder. “You hate me less.”

Lance felt a shudder run through him, rendering him cold; helpless he looked back to Shiro and Pidge, who looked appalled but not necessarily surprised. _What did that mean? What was he supposed to say to that?_

“I’ve never hated you, Red.”

Keith yawned, a tiny thing swallowed by Lance’s shoulder. “You’re not supposed to lie.”

“I’m not.” Lance said, too taken aback to soften his tone.

He felt Keith shiver, “Thank you.”

Utterly confused, Lance pulled back gingerly. Keith was asleep.

* * *

 

“Should we take him to the healing chambers?” Hunk asked quietly, as Shiro sank heavily to the ground, head in hands.

Pidge frowned, eyeing Keith. “He doesn’t seem so much physically harmed, as malnourished and… out of sorts.” They fiddled with their pager, connecting the line to Coran, and repeating the observation. “Is that even something the pod can help rectify?”

“It wouldn’t be harmful to take a look, Number Five. At the very least, we can have a look at his headhole and scan his brainbox.” Coran supplied, a little subdued.

Shiro looked out of sorts himself, wiped out and weary. Pidge felt a worried frown pull at their mouth, and turned to Lance. “Can you carry him?”

Lance didn’t look too good either, an unsettling gleam in his blue eyes, but he placed one of his arms under Keith and lifted him gently over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “He’s lighter than he used to be.” He remarked, unhappily.

Pidge turned to Matt, hovering in the back, out of the way and tilted their head towards Shiro. He nodded, face carefully blank.

It was something that still jarred Pidge, how careful their naïve, clumsy brother had become. He was no warrior, still, but his edges were filed smooth and even, and his reactions much subtler, and slower to surface.

They doubted Matt could see them as the same little girl he had left behind on Earth either.

Once they might have wished for it go back to the way it was, to simpler times but they wouldn’t make the trade now, when this family bound by space-cats meant so much to them.

_Keith._

The name felt like a gunshot to their chest. What had they _done_ to him?

Pidge trailed after Lance, leaving Shiro to their brother. It was slow progress, but progress nevertheless. Red had seemed to appreciate Lance’s intervention even if it was unorthodox.

Or maybe it was orthodox? A reminder of what Keith and Lance had been like.

That memory could have been the factor to break through to Keith’s obviously muddled brain.

“Pidge.” Lance’s voice was soft, and it almost didn’t register.

“What?” they asked, equally quietly back.

“Will he be okay?”

Pidge swallowed, and stopped walking; not wanting to lie, but not wanting to say what everyone was inevitably thinking. _Keith might never be the same._ “We’ll wait for him until he is.”

“I hope the chamber helps.” He said, without slowing.

Pidge studied the breadth of Lance’s shoulders, snug in the now-ratty shirt he had been wearing the day they had left Earth. He only ever wore it when he needed the comfort of something familiar, of something that reminded him of home; the abstract concept beyond this endless mass of stars and aliens they had found themselves sinking into.

Pidge thought of their mother, and felt a touch of sadness grip their heart, and pushed it away; compartmentalizing their thoughts in favour of the here and now.

Pidge looked towards Lance’s retreating back, and thought of how much more capable he had become of shouldering the weight of the galaxy, picking up the slack when Shiro faltered; the way they braced Keith as he fell, and fell, and fell.

No one knew where Keith would land.

If he would be able to land.

Pidge sighed, and kept walking, realizing to themselves that despite their healthy cynicism in the face of Lance’s idealist, they too were hoping for the miracle that something could restore their Keith to them.

* * *

 

The pods didn’t help.

Keith woke as Coran and Lance tried to help into the chamber, and he flipped out.

It was terrifying. Nobody had ever seen Keith lose his head quite so… openly.

It wasn’t the loss of control they associated with him, a handing over of reins to a being made of war and wrath. A willful loss of calm to something that pushed him harder, faster, more ruthlessly.

This was an animalistic frenzy.

He thrashed and howled, struggling desperately, frantically clinging as if being shoved into open space, not a healing chamber. “No, please _please_ , no.”

Pidge was ashamed to say they looked away, and covered their ears; tears burning in their eyes.

Lance’s mouth tightened, but he ignored the pleas. Coran paled, but kept pushing.

Eventually, Lance murmured an apology, and struck sharply at the unprotected point at the nape of Keith’s neck, and caught him when he crumpled.

His lip trembled, but he placed Keith wordlessly into the cryopod.

When the doors slid shut with a hiss, enclosing Keith into its cool embrace, no one stopped him as he strode from the room in quick unsteady steps.

Allura watched, shaking hand on heart, and wondered how this kind of pain could be justified in the eyes of any higher power that existed. She wished the war wasn’t the toxic seeping wasteland that had encompassed the universe as she slumbered, she wished her Paladins; these children, barely in the first half of their adulthood, had been able to enjoy the regular mindless concerns of life.

Mostly, selfishly, she wished for Altea, and Alfor, and that the guilt and blame of Keith’s undoing hadn’t lay solely on her shoulders, as the leader of the force of light and hope.

They should have found him sooner.

They should never have let him slip away.

Ten thousand years ago, they never should have stopped fighting.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some concerns regarding this chapter: the first being how much i struggle writing scenes with more than two characters involved, and the voices of the different characters; do they sound as different as i intend them and are their personal traits shining through, or are they all lumped together in one big dump of writer speak? are one or more of them just standing idly by while the train wreck takes place, unable to look away? Is it as stilted as it feels on this side of the keyboard? Can you tell how much i struggle with Hunk?? He's like the antithesis of me as a person, i don't know how to write that... D:
> 
> Id honestly love feedback on these aspects, in specific, as well anything else you guys may have felt: good or bad.
> 
> (Thankyou for reading, hope you enjoyed yourselves, and i love all of you. Hope you have a better day than Keith


	4. As Your Eyes Start to Blister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere between one instant and the next, chaos had become the natural state of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SO SORRY for the delay; Murphy's law happened. Real life got in the way; i had my final thesis project and defense due, which entailed a million and one sleepless nights and FINALLY graduated :') then once i caught up on my sleep, i was planning on flying out to see my sister, and three days before that she had to undergo emergency surgery, which had a million complications and now she's thankfully recovering, but i'm sadly left with very little time to myself between my niece and nephew and general aftercare. She's getting better by the day, though, so i finally took my chance to write (Stayed up two whole nights trying to write, but this chapter wasn't kind to me, which is why its kind of short, sorry) and then, my laptop mysteriously developed connectivity issues, so that was yet another setback... -.- So, i'm super sorry, never intended to disappear for a month *hides face*
> 
> But with my excuses and apologies said and done, ALL OF YOU GUYS THANKYOU. Your kudos, comments and even the people who read but don't react, you're all AWESOME. THANKYOU and THANKYOU. i never expected such kind words and positive feedback. Every comment HONESTLY makes my day, and jettisons my writing drive which is great.
> 
> Im still kind of swamped IRL but i also have the next two chapters in the works, so hopefully you wont have to wait THIS long for the next updates (or atleast that's how i'm justifying where i left this *hehe*)
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and don't hate me too much after this (heads up, the next chapter is kind of one of my favourites, and im really excited to get to it :D)

* * *

* * *

 

Keith woke to the taste of blood in his mouth, and an unbearable pull in his arms and shoulders; unable to feel his legs beyond the sharp needling sensations.

He looked up, finding his wrists shackled together, and held up by a chain suspended from the ceiling. He yanked experimentally, and yelled in startled shock as the movement sent electric sparks racing down his spine.

Confused, he did it again, and felt the same horrid shockwave jolt through him.

He was less surprised, this time, but it seemed to hurt more, reverberating through his skull and jaw and lingering.

Electrocuted chains, likely triggered by a certain amount of pull. If Pidge were here, they could probably analyze it down to the last degree of movement. He imagined their little frame, held in chains and shuddered at the thought.

Thank fuck they were all safe.

He tried to shift to relieve himself of the ache in his knees, but quickly realized with a downwards glance that he was shackled just below the knee cap to the floor. He was suspended, unable to move either direction for any leeway; unable to escape without serious brain damage to himself.

He finally lifted his head to the source of the small laugh he had heard almost as an afterthought.

The Prince smiled at him, “Sorry for the unpleasantries, couldn’t have you leaving the party that early.”

Keith spat at him, blood and saliva meeting its mark on the handsome face; He felt a vicious surge of satisfaction, marred by the fact that another jolt rushed through his veins. The afterimage of the electricity buzzed under his skin like a swarm of wasps, stinging without discrimination; a hollow static in his bones.

To boot, the prince only seemed genuinely amused as he wiped it away casually. “It really is a shame we met in these circumstances, little warrior. I quite like you.”

Keith held himself very carefully still, and snarled, baring all his teeth.

“What do they call you, little Red?” he asked, cleaning his fingers with a small piece of fabric plucked casually from his pocket.

“Why am I here?” Keith demanded, jerking forward. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

The Prince just looked at him, eyes even. “What is your purpose here?”

“What do you want?” Keith repeated, stubbornly.

A small grin stretched on his sharp face, and his eyes glowed, gold growing to encompass the entirety of the sclera. “Everything.”

* * *

 

Somewhere between one instant and the next, chaos had become the natural state of things.

Matt didn’t quite understand what had happened, but he couldn’t deny he was glad to be out of the rebel base in favour of something a little closer to home.

The command centre had received a missive from what appeared to be the Paladins of Voltron, which was honestly something of an alien urban legend. Something about the last hope of the universe: a gigantic weapon of magical warfare.

Matt didn’t know how much of it he believed.

The leaders, too, had been a little wary but ultimately decided against ignoring it.

The unearthly white spaceship had approached, and despite himself he’d felt burgeoning hope.

And just like every other ounce of optimism Matt had had since starting off on the Kerberos mission some years ago, it was crushed when their base became target to open fire.

Naturally, bedlam ensued.

Matt had seen friends and acquaintances alike shot down indiscriminately. He himself had very nearly become the target of one of those homing lasers, on his back practically _crawling_ for all his effectualness.

The battle cruiser was undeniably Galra; the exact violet hue of their technology still troubled Matt in dreams torn asunder by latent memories turned nightmares.

Seeing Shiro, then, had been relief like a desperate gulp of air, emerging from the depths of an ocean. He diverted the shot and dispatched the ship with startling, swift ease, and Matt- in one of his less refined moments- was left to gape.

Shiro was irreversibly different, that was undeniable. White hair, scarred and built much wider than the officer he had known- but seeing him alive and well was something that uncoiled a knot in Matt’s stomach that he hadn’t entirely been aware of.

He hadn’t known for sure that he was alive.

He had _hoped_ , but hadn’t dared to believe.

The smile, gentle and sincere, was exactly the same.

Just with that, he felt some of his lost faith resurface.

Matt grinned back instantly, genuinely and even without seeing it, knew it was bound to be more than a little goofy. He was reaching for Shiro’s outstretched hand without considering his leaders or his comrades - even before the massive onyx robot cat behind him registered.

He yelped, jerking back- another something he wasn’t proud of and would deny with vigor, later in the retelling(s)- and Shiro’s smile turned as wicked as the gaping maw he was perched in.

It was about this time that everything went to hell in a handbasket.

The Black Lion was yanked back sharply, caught in a sinister purple beam, Shiro stumbling and bracing himself quickly.

Dismayed, Matt wondered- even as his brain frantically weighed potential solutions to the problem- if this was his fate; getting a glimpse at a better existence, before having it whisked away.

Then Shiro shouted, more than a little panicked “NO!”

And there was a massive explosion that was felt, even through space, in aftershocks of impact.

The tractor beam pulling Shiro away was gone, and so was the dread he had seen on his face; he steeled himself and helped Matt into his robot-space-cat.

The technology was eons ahead of anything Matt had ever seen: on Earth, Space and the in-between. It was sleek black lines and glowing interfaces.

Matt was in a version of heaven.

Shiro laughed softly at his expression, but Matt didn’t fail to notice how his eyes remained tight, and mouth slightly tense.

The fireworks continued, brighter, harsher, louder than any the festivals back home could have produced.

He tried not to think of the collateral damage they would entail.

He looked out to what appeared to be a rogue Galra cruiser, decimating more than sixty five percent of the armada in one swoop of hellfire.

Matt made a soft confused sound, and Shiro turned to him, hard-edged mouth opening, only to be interrupted.

There was a crackle from Shiro’s helmet, and he could hear the vague impression of a low raspy voice. A response somewhere between laughter and reassurance.

Shiro sighed, but his face relaxed in apparent relief. He smiled at the outburst of muffled voices Matt could hear.

He was not sure of who exactly was on the line, but as Shiro cut his eyes to him, and grinned softly; Matt couldn’t help but feel comforted.

Then there was a shout from the helmet’s comms; alarmed, and very audible, and Shiro’s face fell, hope shattered and replaced by fear.  “KEITH!” his voice seemed to have been torn from him.

“ _Kogane_?” it was a soft murmur, that Matt hadn’t entirely intended for.

Shiro’s eyes were very wide, very scared- almost young.

Matt felt his heart constrict and twist as he stilled, even as the noise surrounding them only intensified. The cat-ship rumbled, almost a growl, and in that instant Matt could honestly say, he had never felt such acute terror for someone he couldn’t even entirely remember the face of.

He just remembered stubborn, too-bright eyes, and a propensity for fights that was unrivaled even in the history of military academies. He remembered a boy whose shoulders were straight, sharp-edged like blades, always poised to take on the world.

He wondered what it would take for that boy to have been silenced.

Matt remembered, and wondered- caramel eyes all the while fixed on Shiro’s disintegrating composure and shaking hands- and felt his found-faith fade back into the endless abyss of the galaxies.

* * *

 

The Prince unnerved Keith, loathe as he was to admit it.

He didn’t shout or resort to violence in the face of Keith’s stubbornness. He didn’t have the deadly, single-minded focus of Zarkon, or wear arrogance as an armour like Haggar. He didn’t deliver monologues like Sendak, or have cowardice flowing in his veins like Morvok.

He was just impossible to read.

The more Keith struggled, or refused him, the more amused the Prince seemed to grow.

He laughed at the more creative insults Keith threw, expression genuinely delighted.

He didn’t tire, casually strolling around the armory like a walk through his royal gardens, inspecting the occasional weapon with as much care as one would show a delicate petaled flower.

He was _fluid_ :  personality seeming to always shift just so, when Keith began to think he finally understood a little.

Keith was wholly frustrated, shaking from the strain of holding himself up, and keeping still, when the Prince finally stopped on his latest amble around the room and turned to him. “Lotor.” He said, eyes and face very even on Keith’s face, long white hair fluttering an instant, before settling on his shoulders.

Keith kept quiet, unable to lift his head high enough to glare with any real effect, but he didn’t break the gaze he had held almost from the minute he had awoken.

“What is your name, Paladin? It is only right to return the favour.”

“I. Owe. You. Nothing.” Keith gritted out, voice much more unsteady in the aftermath of what was most likely more electricity than blood in his veins.

For the first time that the Red Paladin could recall, Lotor’s mouth didn’t widen to a smile. His sharp face suddenly grew very shrewd, golden eyes calculating. The change it wrought was startling; the veneer of amused Prince replaced easily with that of a seasoned Commander.

Shift.

Keith had to fight back a shudder, his heart picking up in tempo.

 _Fear;_ he realized. He excelled in incensing his opponents enough to throw them off their game at least a little- a technique that he had virtually perfected on Lance- but _Lotor_ was cutting through the bravado effortlessly.

He wasn’t one to trifle with; and if he couldn’t be provoked into making a mistake, then Keith would be helpless within the confines of his cage; entirely dependent on help that might not come.

 _Shiro’s not like that,_ he reminded himself, _the team wouldn’t._

 _Would they?_ He remembered with a wince the callous way he had asked not to retrieve Allura; he still maintained it would have been the safer bet, but being on the other side of the deal, he wondered if they would deem him an acceptable loss like he had the Altean princess.

He _would_ survive after all; it was what he did.

 _No._ he reminded himself of Pidge; insatiable curiosity and unlimited intellect, a fierce unquenchable desire to protect; Shiro: unshakeable ideals and easily given compassionate heart, a love so freely bestowed; Lance: his need for family, to keep _his_ safe and happy, even at his own expense, his easy adaptability in somehow stretching that blanket of family to him and the others… Despite every rough patch and bout of battling, Keith knew he cared about everyone in his team, and they cared in return.

They wouldn’t abandon him…they wouldn’t.          

He had to keep faith, for once in his life.

Keith owed his team that much.

He felt resolve straighten his back a little, and he held himself up as unbendingly as he could, suspended as he was.

Lotor watched his defiance with a small curl of his lip, and after a few instants of dead silence and exchanged breaths, finally spoke. “How would you feel about a spar? You win, and I’ll answer your questions; lose and you answer mine.”

Keith felt a sneer twist his mouth as he thought of a weapon in his hand, and that elegant column of the Prince’s purple neck under his knife. “Unchain me.”

Lotor didn’t smile, but nodded his head and snapped his fingers. “Done.”  
 

* * *

 

Pidge was so out of sorts- drowning in the deepest waters of guilt- that even the sight of Matt didn’t truly register. Their fickle heart seemed to beat with a name.

_Keith. Keith. Keith._

As always, to compensate for their failing heart, Pidge’s brain kicked into overdrive; fixating on every detail, every piece of information… anything to stop the twisting in their chest, the stone cold pit in their stomach.

_Keith. Keith. Keith._

Matt was older; hard-eyed and sharp faced. The softness in the lines of his jaw, his cheeks had long been chiseled away- Pidge might have called it gaunt in comparison to before, but there wasn’t anything malnourished about the change.

His hair was wilder, longer, brushing his collar, wayward strands fluttering about his face.

His hands, once gentle and unblemished, were unshaking; scars littered across the skin, a map only he could give the key to cracking.

His lips were thinned, white with pressure.

His caramel eyes were sad.

_Keith. Keith. Keith._

Lance was pale, even as he demanded an explanation, a rescue plan, anything _anything._ His hands were shaking so violently, caught between one action and the next, that the bones almost seemed to be jittering out of his skin, blurring out of their sight.

His voice, his words, were mostly filtered out by Pidge’s brain: but the slight waver, the anger, the cold naked fear wasn’t.

They noticed his trembling lip, the tension in his knuckles.

They noticed the glimmer of unshed tears in his sharp blue eyes.

_Keith. Keith. Keith._

Allura was trembling, arms wrapped around her shoulders.

Her skin seemed wedged between shifts; chocolate flashing a lighter caramel in anxious beats.

Pidge wondered idly which race the Princess was channeling; if they were sentient, and whether or not they were now extinct.

Whether they had a word for this loss, tearing through them all, yet binding them still as one; just slightly less than whole.

_Keith. Keith. Keith._

Off her shoulder, Coran hovered, as if wondering how exactly to help Allura. His alien eyes, however seemed strangely absent, mind clearly somewhere else.

His shoulders were drawn, none of the energy Pidge associated with the Altean man. His frame was almost wilting.

_Keith. Keith. Keith._

Hunk seemed fixed in the same wavelength as Pidge; his eyes flittering nervously from one team member to the next.

His mouth moved in silent prayer, and Pidge was struck with the realization that they had no idea of what he believed in, what the big gentle giant called back to when he was adrift.

_Keith. Keith. Keith._

Shiro.

It only took one glance, for Pidge to snap out of the overly analytic rut their mind had regressed to.

One glance, to have the deluge of emotions come crashing back in.

Pidge felt tears well up in their eyes, muddling their vision, breath choking in an inaudible sob.

Shiro looked like a man whose universe had imploded, leaving crumbs where there had been solid ground.

He looked like they all felt: t _errified_.

* * *

 

Keith was a fool.

His muscles were stiff, caught in position for what was likely far longer than he had initially assumed.

The electricity was debilitating; every few minutes, he felt a spasm virtually seize his muscles in sharp cramps, and it was all he could do to not crumple to the floor screaming in pain.

And Lotor, was fast and accurate; deadly like a viper.

Keith was instantly put on the defensive as the Prince darted forward, an admittedly striking, lethal looking blade in hand; he only just managed to parry, the blow clattering off the Marmoran blade.

Keith felt the impact reverberate through him, and gritted his teeth furiously against the soreness.

Lotor hadn’t been foolish enough to give Keith his bayard, which was nowhere to be seen much to the paladin’s disappointment, but had allowed him to take the luxite blade.

His eyes had gleamed with disturbing cunning when the dagger had elongated in Keith’s hand.

Keith’s mind screamed internally; the look in his eyes had been too knowing.

(His instincts were all on edge, haunted in hindsight.)

Keith panted roughly, the last parry pushing him backwards several feet, winding him terribly, while Lotor just pushed back his curtain of hair, unfazed.

He was a _fool._

It had never stopped him before, though, and the Red Paladin steeled himself against the myriad aches under his skin, as he took the opportunity to rush at the Galran Prince.

He met Keith’s blow with ease, and held it, blades facing off fatal inches away from both their throats.

Lotor had an interesting stance: slightly tapered, leaning forward at the core, lowering him almost to Keith’s level, with his left arm held slightly behind his body. His sword arm, extended was exceedingly swift, alternating between fluid sweeps and sharp jabs.

Interesting, but it made for a difficult opponent, especially without Keith’s own sword.

The Marmoran blade was strong in its own right, but it was undoubtedly unfamiliar to Keith: just as undiscovered as Keith’s Galran heritage.

Lotor brushed the hold away, insultingly easily, and slashed in one quick movement of his wrist, and Keith staggered back, blood splattering from the wound.

He looked down at the long- but thankfully shallow- cut across his left shoulder, and was reminded of just how vulnerable he was without either armour or shirt. He skittered to a stop, and snarled at Lotor, even as he wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

Stupid fucking _idiot_.

Lotor entirely decked out in a light-weight, flexibly protective flight-suit had no such qualms, and dashed forward once more, jabbing at Keith’s exposed left once within range.

Keith smirked, as he sidestepped the anticipated strike, and easily switched the luxite blade from his right hand to his left, covering his deliberately open side in one heavy-handed slash.

It met Lotor’s elegant sword, and cleanly swiped it from his grip, flinging it across the room.

Keith quickly spun, placing the tip of the blade at Lotor’s throat, reveling in the wideness of the Prince’s wicked eyes.

If his body felt like it had been put through a grinder, well, no one needed to know.

“Yield.” Keith demanded, gasping in a breath.

Lotor’s eyes glinted- and for the first time, he detected rage in their depths. Without any of the fanfare Keith had begun to associate with the prince, his straggling left hand came up between them, under Keith’s outstretched arm, and a dagger materialized into his open palm, embedding itself neatly into the Red Paladin’s heart.

Keith choked, heart constricting painfully around the sharp jab, knees threatening to give out.

“ _No_.” Lotor hissed, deep voice furious as he twisted the literal dagger in Keith’s chest. “I think not.”

Well, _fuck_.

The pain in Keith’s chest was unbearable, a burning fire that seared just as it chilled him from the inside out.

“What is this?” he choked out, voice shaking as much as one would expect from someone with a _knife in their fucking heart._

Lotor straightened, letting go of the blade, and by proxy, Keith.

He crumpled to the floor, on his hands and knees, quite unable to hold himself up without the Prince propping him up.

The red paladin looked down in incredulity; no doubt about it, there was _definitely_ a dagger piercing through him; the pain was a solid indicator, as was the sight that met his eyes.

He just couldn’t be sure he wasn’t hallucinating, what with one key fact.

There was _no blood._

“I believe it is you who owes me an answer, paladin.” Lotor’s voice was very cold, none of the previous amusement or levity present, as he retrieved the sword Keith had disarmed him of.

Keith choked in another breath, trying to ignore the agony, the panic shrouding his mind, the _fucking weapon in his fucking heart._

Everything _hurt_ , so Keith remained on the floor in the humiliating half kneel he had fallen into, gasping in one blistering breath after another.

He sensed, rather than heard Lotor approach, his ears ringing. He crouched in front of Keith, and when Keith finally managed to raise his head enough to look at him, he smiled.

It was cold.

“What is your _name_ , paladin?”

“ _Keith_.” He panted.

“How quaint.” He said, rising sinuously, leaving the blade and Keith exactly where they were.

Keith thought with half a mind to yank out the dagger and sink it in the Prince’s throat. Delirious in pain, with his vision blurring at the edges, however, he only managed to raise one hand to grasp the handle, when pure, white-hot electricity crackled through him.

Keith remembered screaming, and then nothing.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? 
> 
> *snickers*
> 
>  
> 
> *UPDATE: felt sorry for the horrible cliffhanger, and extended it just enough to complete the scene. Still a cliffhanger but it initially ended at "Well, fuck."*


	5. No Hope For a Final Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little by little, the paladins begin to realize that sometimes change is sudden, making impact at incomprehensible speeds, and things are inevitably inconstant, and rarely do people ever remain the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, things are much better here at my end (thankyou to everyone who asked). I've been working on this chapter bit by bit for ages (literally the next day after uploading my last, but its a scientifically proven fact that my muse has the worst timing so inevitably i ended up forcing myself to finish the incomplete draft and upload it before i watch the third season (im SO EXCITED and SO SO NERVOUS). i only wish i had been better able to update my piece and my take on the characterization more solidly before Lotor (in specific) was actually revealed. I will try very hard to continue the original plot and headcanon characterization so this could likely end up diverging from canon Lotor but i cant say since i have yet to watch season 3 (please do not spoil it for me, thanks!) 
> 
> My other fic is also in the works with an incomplete mostly undetailed plot line drafts, and i might have started writing something for this fandom radically different from what i am usually about. Another experiment, dunno how long that'll take but i hope you guys will be around for that too :')
> 
> anyway, rambling aside, hope you enjoy this and thankyou for your support and kind words <3 for everyone who commented and left kudos, you guys have honestly been a treasure, and a joy and massively inspiring. Hope you enjoy this too (and loved season 3)

* * *

* * *

 

Keith woke, slowly: head heavy, limbs leaden.

For an instant, his mind thrived; delighted by the delusion that he was in the Castle of Lions. White walls, awash in a cerulean crystalline glow.

Then it broke, and flashed purple: the colour of the deepest recesses of his nightmares.

He opened his mouth, to speak, to scream- he didn’t know- but a thick viscous liquid replaced the air in his lungs, and he choked on it.

Keith gagged, trying to grasp at his throat, at any edge to support himself, but found himself unable to even lift his arms.

There was a trickle of sound, then: calls increasing in volume, and a muffled thumping, a clattering, a crashing.

Then a smooth snick, and the fluid vanished, and unmoored he fell forward into stinging air: it burned his arms, or maybe it chilled… Keith was too disoriented to tell.

He fell, and something held him up, searing his arms where they met: something making unfamiliar sounds his muddled head could not parse.

He tried to force his heavy eyes open, but found himself incapable of even that.

 _Pathetic_ _little boy_.

Keith felt his head loll, and an unintelligible garble of words escape his mouth.

_How far you have fallen._

The scorching grip on his arm shifted, to his neck, his forehead, and he jerked his head away from the sensation.

_Why would anyone stay by you willingly?_

His breath caught in his throat, and he felt the little energy he had retained by force of will, seep from him.

_Why would anyone want you back?_

He let go.

* * *

 

Shiro had been there to catch Keith when the healing pod had released him; but he almost wished he hadn’t been. The Red Paladin freezing and unresponsive in his arms, flinching from touch, pleading for mercy, had torpefied something that felt a lot like his heart.

Shiro didn’t know how to get a handle on this.

For so long, the unshakeable fact in his life was that Keith was unbreakable. The boy he’d called family long before Kerberos, and the battle for the fate of the universe; belief in him had been a foundation in his life. He relied on that truth when all else crumbled; that when _he_ stumbled, Keith had _always_ been- and would be- there.

Selfish as it was, Shiro needed Keith to hold him together, to hold him down, to hold him and assure him- them- that _they_ would be okay.

 _They_ needed Keith.

Lance had filled him in on the panic attack that had happened when they had first put him under. He left out no detail, voice flat and uninflected, even as his hands shook like they’d never be still again.

Shiro didn’t know what to say to Lance; it was clear that he needed _Shiro_ , their Black Paladin to step up, soothe him and assuage his doubts.

Shiro could barely even find his tongue. It was too close to him, and too close to his own experience with the Empire. He was too lost in a sea of confining rage that left him frustrated and useless.

They had broken him, and then remade him into their image; Keith had already been of them, but they had only taken him apart. (Something new had formed in the absence of what he had been, but none of them knew what it was.)

And gods above, if Shiro didn’t feel responsible.

When Keith finally resurfaced from the chamber induced hysteria, he was pale and withdrawn; cheeks hollow; bruise-like smudges below his eyes the only spot of colour on his skin; those cobalt eyes were haunted, almost lifeless.

He wouldn’t make eye contact or speak. He just walked, unsteady and shivering.

Shiro and Allura had been the only ones in the chamber, and he honestly tried to stop Keith, to miraculously find him unbroken, but Keith flinched away, and his heart sank clear to the floor.

He might still have grabbed Keith, but Allura grasped his hand and held on; her eyes were filled with tears, but she didn’t falter, in strength or support.

Underneath different circumstances, he might have resisted; pushed through with a smile on force of will alone; brushed the princess off and convinced everyone he was fine.

Underneath different circumstances, Shiro might have been grounded enough to hold his team down as well, as opposed to being a slave to the pithy fury running in his veins.

But not today; not with his foundations of faith crumbling, taking his composure and resolve with it.

Today, he sagged onto Allura's unwavering shoulder, and as she wrapped an arm around him, he wondered if she knew that without Keith holding him together, she might be the only reason he hadn't disintegrated completely.

* * *

 

Keith paced restlessly through the castle, pushing his legs faster and faster until they burned with strain.

The wounds healed, and he was left with phantom pains and aches that served to make him feel crazier.

He cultivated the hurt, welcomed the burn; he needed the ache.

_Run, run, run._

This was his, he was responsible for this, for this at least he was in control.

This pain was _his_.

Keith didn’t know where he was really walking to.

He put one foot in front of the other, fought the urge to check injuries that pulled at his skin, tore at his veins, seeped into his clothes.

He _knew_ they weren’t there anymore.

Disappeared with the air in the chamber.

He knew they weren’t there, but still, he felt them acutely- he felt the unowned discomfort, and it reminded him of how helpless he had been.

How helpless he was.

_Faster, faster, faster._

This place seemed unerringly like the Castle, and it was another pang in his heart; a twisting feeling he’d come to realize only in cold empty moments- in the void where there was nothing for his senses to glean stimulus from- was homesickness.

His first home in decades, and he had lost it, only to find it in visions with the sole purpose of taunting him with what he would never have again.

He felt a small, almost shamed presence curled up in his head, and longing pulled his heart towards searing warmth.

Despite knowing it wasn’t true, his feet pulled him to the hangar; It wasn’t real, he knew that too but he still wanted it desperately.

 _Red,_ and an intense need to belong.

The only times he had seemed to find rest was in the hangar, with Red curled around him like a mother around her cub.

The only times he had truly been untouchable was ensconced in her scarlet embrace.

Even Zarkon hadn’t quite managed to reach him; to rip him apart even as strong as he had felt his desire to be.

Keith met Red’s golden eyes, and smiled- it was haltingly tentative, and nearly nonexistent; he wondered if the moment he made contact, the hallucination would fall through to his perpetual hollow despair.

He still held out his hand, and she still tilted her head down to meet it.

Inevitable like gravity; impossible to resist.

He burrowed closer, putting his face against her giant, impossibly warm, textured muzzle.

Keith felt his heart constrict, and he tried to tell himself the warmth sliding down his face was not his own blood.

It could have been, but he wouldn’t care, treasuring the warmth of a bond he had scarcely believed he’d feel again; he knew it wasn’t real, but it felt tangible enough to feed into his delusions.

It likely _was_ blood, but still he refused to let go of his giant deadly space cat to check; he felt a small vibration emanate around him, rattling through his bones in an oddly comforting way.

He sighed into the velvet brush of air around him, and for the first time, felt the tension in his frame ease into the metal surrounding him.

He sank into it, allowing his knees to finally crumble, taking him down but his arms didn’t once shift.

He held on, and Red curled tighter.

And when he drifted off, it was a testament to how fragile Keith’s emotional state had become that as he slept, Red put up the barrier sealing even the other paladins out.

* * *

 

Matt’s mouth went tight lipped as he took in the tremor in Keith’s walk, his staggering steps barely paces away from a flat-out sprint, at the way he flinched at loud noises and conversation, the way he skittered from touch.

He knew the tells.

Matt had experienced some fraction of the same, but the light in Keith’s eyes; frantic, and suspiciously bright told him his own suffering had been just that- a _fraction_.

His time at the rebels had him working on a nocturnal schedule, non-circadian in comparison to the time kept in the castle of lions at least, so as he walked around in the still almost-dead hallways, he heard the screams at night. The frantic muffled sobbing, smothered likely by skin and fabric, the way Keith said the paladins’ names in frenzied desperation, succession- it all spoke volumes of a man afraid beyond the body’s capability… beyond even that of the heart.

The way Keith pleaded with mystery ghosts to leave him alone.

_Please, just stop. I c-can’t. I don’t know. Please._

_Leave_ them _out of this!_

The way Keith apologized, hysterical and afraid, like he wanted more than anything to stop existing.

 _I’m sorry. I’m_ sorry. _Please take me instead, don’t! NO! Please I’ll do anything, please forgive me._

Like Keith didn’t deserve to exist.

 _Please_.

Matt honestly didn’t know if it was possible to come back from the brink of despair that was quite so consuming; quite so rooted in everything one was powerless to protect.

He didn’t think he would have been able; He didn’t know if even Shiro- the finest specimen of all that was good and strong in mankind- might have been capable of it.

Matt didn’t know how to say it- would probably never say it for fear of extinguishing the fragile hope in his sister’s eyes, the fierce need in Shiro’s-  but he saw the fragility in Keith’s impossible kaleidoscope eyes and he worried that the boy that meant so much to the people of this castle, wouldn’t find his way back.

He worried what exactly was in store for the rest of them, when one of the most resilient souls he had once been acquainted to, was so irrevocably altered.

* * *

 

Keith woke up feeling safe; a warmth in his heart and contentment in his soul.

If it was a dream, it was more pleasant than any and all realities he had been facing of late.

If it was a weird phantasm, it was impossibly kind. It was a feeling so foreign, that his eyes stung in telltale prickling.

He made to straighten, brace himself, face the day, work away the traitorous tears before he was discovered, only to find himself pinned in place by a warm weight in his arms.

Embarrassingly, his first reaction was to panic. He jerked back, jostling the weight but not managing to displace it. His heart constricted in almost debilitating fear, and it nearly stopped altogether when the weight grumbled softly, recognizably, and burrowed closer.

This time a chestnut cloud of hair met his vision, and Keith couldn't breathe.

He focused on distinguishing the weight from a solid mass to separate stimuli: sharp, birdlike bones, warm skin, temperate skittering breaths- sporadic bursts of warmth fanning against his neck.

He forced his heart rate to even, gasping in a strangled breath, one after the other, focusing on categorizing the scent, one smell at a time: rich earth and a tinge of citrus, pine leaves, petrichor and something sharper, colder- metal.

Pidge.

 _Katie_.

Keith's heart twisted painfully, and he wondered why mercy was always followed by cruelty.

He was just so tired.

Something about seeing Pidge- tiny but fierce; frail yet sharp; anything but defenceless, but still so naively idealistic- just hurt the most.

He could take Lance's vitriol, Allura's white hot rage and hatred- even to an extent Shiro's defection- but seeing Pidge; seeing the way they always broke them, shattered their bones and inquisitive mind, extinguished that bright spark of life… it was too much.

Keith choked; caught in the undertow of emotion and despair, and Pidge stirred.

He desperately wondered if by pretending to be asleep or just dead would prevent the deliria. He clenched his eyes shut.

“Keith?” a word mumbled softly into his shoulder.

He just breathed, and Pidge shifted from where they lay wrapped around him. He realized belatedly, with some surprise, that their small hand was tangled somewhat viciously into the nape of his neck; firmly lodged in his hair.

If he didn't know what was next to come, he would feel secure.

They nudged closer, resting a sharp chin on his chest, and asked as soft as their murmuring of his name, “are you okay?”

This… was new.

When he didn't respond, they added in a voice that wavered slightly “please just open your eyes.”

_I need to know you're real. That you won't slip away._

The second part was an afterthought, and it took Keith a second to realize it had been unvoiced.

That it had trickled through the bond.

Confused, he opened his eyes and met a field of worried amber that instantly softened in relief.

“Real?” he rasped, a little dazed.

_He didn’t understand._

Pidge's amber eyes, so much brighter without their glasses, flickered in a wave of emotion. They nodded, still plastered across him.

“You should go, Pidge.” He said, lowly. “you can't let them get you.”

“I’ve got _you_ , Keith. We’ve got you. You’re safe. We’re safe. You’re going to be okay. We all are.” It was a mass of words, rushing out, tangling up in their successors as they fled.

It was very Pidge, and his heart ached, a deep-echoing throb of old wounds and ill memories.

He smiled, and hoped that that at least was kind. Kinder than his words, which were decidedly not. “There’s no such thing, _Katie_.”

* * *

 

He had looked at Pidge like a miracle come to pass, and it had hurt something in their heart. They didn’t know if he realized it, but even his sharp fragmented edges seemed to wilt in the face of them. As a consequence, they were the one who managed to come closest, although Keith had avoided them for days after that incident when he’d awoken to Pidge reassuring themself that he was very much real, very much alive; safely present in Red’s grip.

He still flinched as they lifted a hand to stroke through his hair, to assure themselves he was materially there. But he allowed it.

It was more than anything else.

Pidge cried, snot and heaving sobs and all, and for once they were unashamed about it.

How could they not be, when their family was now complete?

How could they be when what they had prayed for- unceasing months on end- to a god not entirely theirs in claim, and yet what they had gotten was not nearly what they had wanted? When their former ease in dynamic seemed irretrievable?

Unconquerable Keith looked at Allura with apology, and self-loathing; when she spoke, he flinched, almost recoiling as if he wished to hide.

Impassive Keith looked at Hunk eating as if he wanted to snatch it away from him, with a strange fear, like he wanted to haul the big man away to safety.

Impassable Keith, once inseparable from Shiro, didn’t look at Shiro at all. It was unfathomable but when Pidge finally caught them looking, they were the ones who looked away because the expression on the Red Paladin’s face- the conflict, the shadow of distress, the flash of agony- was unbearable.

Indestructible Keith looked at Lance with a mixture of a strange anxiety and concern, but also resignation and relief. It was the hardest to understand, because the combination of emotion was foreign on an unfearing face.

The worst of all was what it meant; what it meant when their dauntless, resilient, unstoppable Keith- their family, their friend- looked troubled.

It meant that things were very much different, and no manner of wishing would make that fact vanish.

It meant darker things on the horizon.

It meant an awareness; that nothing was or would be easy.

Most of all, it meant that nothing, including the Paladins themselves would ever be the same.

Idealistic. Ignorant. _Innocent_.

* * *

 

Keith sat very still, on the observatory floor- eyes fixed on the ever-shifting aether of the cosmos, seemingly heedless to the seats inches away from him.

Space had been eerily still since their retrieval of Keith, a week of near silence and- dare he say it?- peace.

As a result everyone was on edge; Keith and his suddenly unfamiliar mannerisms, only sharpened the knife they were walking along.

Matt kept his steps intentionally loud, as he walked over with the objective of finally talking to- assessing- the Red Paladin. He stopped several steps away, addressing him with a simple “Hey Keith.”

And when there was no immediate response, “I’m Matt Holt, it’s nice to finally meet you. Again. Kind of.” His sentence lengthened till he finally stopped himself, sighing a little.

“I know who you are.” Keith finally said, lifting indigo eyes to him. His eyes reflected the stars like a galactic microcosm, his voice raspy with lack of use.

 Matt smiled, and while Keith didn’t smile back, the flint in his eyes softened marginally. “You look like Pidge.”

Matt felt a little surprised, and a lot pleased by the normal response. In his mind, his heart, his gut- for all intents the same at this moment- he knew it was because he had nothing to do with Keith’s disappearance, nor stock in his life, and consequently hadn’t been used to hurt him.

Not the way his nocturnal screams seemed to direct Matt to the conclusion that the others had.

Matt inclined his head, trying to tip the thought away for fear that his pity would shine through. “I’m glad you’re back safely. I understand it’s thanks to you that they managed to retrieve me.”

Keith listened quietly, and merely nodded in response. “I’m glad Pidge got you back.”

His answer seemed to sweep everything he’d been through, or done under the rug, as if inconsequential, as if Katie being happy was the only thing important.

Matt gestured at the seat next to him, “mind if I sit?”

He shrugged, but subtly shifted enough that there was a substantial breadth of floor between them. His pale, scar-flecked hands shook a little, as he shoved his hair back in disdain. Matt pretended not to notice.

He wondered what topic was safe to broach, without triggering bad memories, without offending the (once, probably still) proud boy with his sympathy.

“Do you fight, Matt?” Keith asked, after a silent moment, without prompting.

Matt jolted at being addressed, and scratched his head sheepishly. “Not well. I use a staff; the rebels insisted on everyone being equipped in a fight.”

“A peacemaker’s weapon.” A dry observation, from dry, bitten lips. His hands twisted almost absently, in vicious angles that were probably painful.

“What was your bayard’s form?” Matt asked, reminded of a long suppressed question, scientific curiosity winning over caution.

Keith looked a little stricken at the word bayard, as if suddenly realizing that he no longer had it, and Matt felt his heart plummet to his space-grade boots.

“A sword…”

Sharp. Deadly. Direct.

An offensive weapon, one typically borne by leaders, protectors, warriors; the people who were on the front lines: the first line of defense, the first line of offense.

Strength, bravery, honor.

But the connotations were endless… the bayard’s were frankly fascinating in that they shaped themselves to their bearer’s prominent personality traits… Matt wondered if he should even continue in this vein of questioning, in a clearly touchy subject, but a wry part didn’t want to treat Keith as delicately as his team did.

Gods knew, the boy deserved normalcy more than eggshells and tentativity.

As the only fresh start Keith had, Matt owed it to him. So he asked, as casually as possible. “What kind?”

Keith hesitated, eyeing Matt fully but after a pause continued, shoulders losing some of their stiffness “It… always seemed a bit like a hybrid; somewhere between a double-sided sword and a katar.”

“A katar?” Matt asked surprised; now that was far less common. While his knowledge wasn’t infallible, what he remembered from the weapons training forced upon the entire rebel forces were that they were a lot sharper, a lot harder to use since they required more closure, and had less leverage. Their stances were slashes and jabs, mixed with sweeps, making them far more deadly than the noble sword.

A little more savage, a lot more pragmatic, a lot deadlier, if every aspect of it was a fine tuned weapon.

An instrument of war in capable hands.

“That sounds incredible; I haven’t heard of such a specific combination, it must be a wonder to see it in-” Matt trailed off at the suddenly dawning expression on Keith’s steadily shuttering face.

“Keith?”

He raised his hands, fully realized tremors in the fingers, and drove them into the long hair framing his face. He pushed them back viciously, hands twisting in apparent panic.

“Keith?” Matt made to touch him, but drew back when Keith’s burning gaze darted to his hand. “You need to calm down. You’re-” he started to say _‘going to be okay’_ but closed his mouth, not wanting to give false reassurances, or empty promises. “back at the Castle.” He finished.

Keith swallowed, rigidity in his bones easing at the unexpected turn to Matt’s words, and took a shaking breath. “It’s just…I lost Voltron’s biggest weapon.” His voice came out soft, ashamed.

Matt felt his chest tighten, and cursed himself for being a fool. “Keith.” He started softly, but remembering his thought of not treating him as breakable until he finally wasn’t, once again unbendable “No.” he said, and his voice was sharper, louder.

Keith stilled, hands pausing in their writhing, eyes narrowing at Matt. There was a faint spark of challenge in his eyes.

“Keith.” Matt repeated, keeping his voice steady, even. “The bayard wasn’t Voltrons biggest weapon. It was _you_.”

A wry smile twisted Keith’s lips, and the spark in his eyes flared before evening out into a somewhat terrifying calm, wiping the remnant emotion from his face. His hands dropped out of his shoulder length hair.

“ _Was_.” Keith said, and laughed, a sharp and cold sound.

Matt closed his eyes, and breathed in, trying not to let his pity trickle through in his body language

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt has proven especially accommodating to write for me; The bayard discussion in specific was really fun to write, as a person crazy about guns and knives, (and to a degree history) i loved all the implications that the bayard indicates for Keith (and the others). inspired partially by that one post in tumblr with the bayard/paladin character analyses that i read some time ago and have been unable to find since. If anyone could relink me, that would be AWESOME :P im sure its been done before, but i hope you enjoyed my take nevertheless.
> 
> Please do keep the comments spoiler free!


	6. My Heart is Pounding As I Say Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misery loves company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly 9000 words, and not one of these is going to be kind to Keith. Thankyou's for everyone who's reading, leaving kudos, messaging me on tumblr, leaving short and succinct as well as long detailed comments on this fic. You guys are the best; i appreciate each and every one of your interactions SO much. 
> 
> This chapter consumed all my time (and most of my mind). It was nearly impossible to write, and immensely depressing as it is probably the darkest and worst this fic has to offer [(?) still questionable at this point though, sorry)] (I swear there is a reason for each and every cruelty done in this chapter) Its massive and some of the end is unedited/unproofed because i was just too drained (emotionally/physically/mentally). feel free to point out errors (in judgement or typography: either is appreciated)
> 
> I don't know what to say about this. Just be warned. The tags and trigger warnings are there for a reason.

* * *

Keith came to, on the cold hard floor; arm trapped and numb beneath his leaden torso.

His chest burnt endlessly; it hurt to breathe, to move. He forced himself to his knees with supreme force of will, nearly falling face first onto the floor as his numb arm collapsed.

Keith groaned in pain, as his movement jostled the dagger.

There was still no blood.

He didn’t understand, but he didn’t dwell on it; his mind, and that sixth sense he’d never known how to explain, screaming that he needed to get out of here.

Keith shuddered at the pain wracking his nerves, as he attempted to sit back on his knees; to rub some feeling back into his left arm.

This made no sense.

He heard the softest caresses of whisper- like a far off conversation- but when he tried to focus on it, it disappeared like a bubble one finally managed to catch.

Rupturing into nothingness.

He was definitely alive, because his senses all tallied up- sight, sound, smell; all indicating the same sort of information- even if there was some weird game at play.

There was no one there, but nothing seemed out of place.

It seemed all too well-formulated, a little too evenly distributed, but before he could complete that thought, it also vanished, folding in on itself.

 _Pop_ , Keith thought- but he couldn’t remember why that was relevant.

Everything was in place, except…except.

Why wasn’t he bleeding?

Another murmur, the faintest vestiges of words from that odd distance, like prayers carried on wind; _doing; paladin; name; obsessed; even help us; my liege; wary._

His head swam, and he would have raised a hand to it, except that his hands were holding him up.

Keith blinked, distracted- disconcerted- by the pain in his chest; he looked down, but there was nothing; just his regular shirt, looking a little worse for wear.

He wasn’t entirely certain why he felt something was off, when everything looked to be in place. White walls, blue luminescent lighting; empty chairs overlooking the abyss of space at night.

It was a little cold, a little lonely, but Keith was starting to associate that to space, and he couldn’t claim to be unused to the emotion.

He walked forward, intent on his own seat at the back, but somehow felt drawn to the largest chair in front of the podium- just behind Allura’s control panels; Shiro’s chair- indicated only by the small strip of back-lit black.

He sat, something in the back of his mind insisting that he use the panel; unusually trusting of his sixth sense, he lifted a hand, about to place it on the identification panel, when sudden rushed footsteps alarmed him into jerking away.

It was Allura, eyes fierce and hair tied up, decked in battle armour. He had only just registered this when the scene seemed to ripple slightly, and then he was in the conference room that Lance had jokingly dubbed the War Room; the panel still in front of him, displaying the map of the galaxy they were situated in, but the switch had him feeling unsettled for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint.

Keith looked away from the screen, taking in his surroundings, a little confused.

Hadn’t he been in the Control Room just then?

He needed some sleep, clearly, if he was blanking out on walking between rooms.

Allura cleared her throat, and it was severe in the silence.

Keith turned to her, eyes crinkling as his smile turned apologetic at his mouth. “Sorry, Princess. As we were discussing-”

“I am _no_ Princess of yours.” Her voice was sharp, cold and a little disgusted as she interrupted him.

Taken aback, Keith gaped at her. “I- what?”

“Do not think that just because I have not had you thrown overboard, that I trust _you_ , you filthy, lying fiend.”

Keith stilled, unexpected hurt blooming in his heart before he could strengthen it. “Allura, I- what’s going- I don’t _understand_.”

Her lip curled, and her blue eyes were hard, repulsed, mistrusting. “You dare still maintain that guise of friendship? Your kind knows no loyalty, no compassion. You do _not_ fool me.”

“My _kind?”_ and gods be damned, if his voice didn’t sound incredibly pathetic, cleaving down the middle as it did.

“You are just as much a monster as the rest of them. _Blood speaks true._ I will not have you destroy my family, my home _once more._ ”

“Allura?!” he could hear the panic, the frantic plea in his voice, the confusion he felt, unable to do anything to prevent it. His heart twisted in his chest, and there was that ache again; cold and burning at the same time; white hot pain radiating through him.

“Do _not_ take my name, you worm.” She hissed, and it chilled him enough that he staggered back a step. “You are not worthy, of my name, my home, _my father’s lion_.”

_Unworthy._

Keith swallowed, “Red _chose_ me.”

“You _tricked_ her; there is no way your vile species could be a true paladin.” Her bearing was proud, shoulders back, arms crossed. Her face was twisted in a cruel fury, making her beauty intimidatingly harsh.

There was no kindness in her gaze, not for him.

 _“Princess_.” Imploring, begging, unsure- his voice became a little smaller and he hated himself for it, for the anger and hate in her eyes, her voice; her heart.

_How she hates you for what you are; what you can’t help._

_“_ I _will not_ let you succeed; you have already tried to get us killed enough times- I will not let your lies endanger my paladins anymore.”

_Her paladins; are you not one?_

**“** Please, I’m so- I didn’t know. If I- _I didn’t know._ I’m _sorry_.” Keith’s voice was breaking, breaking and he couldn’t help the plea in his voice, nor the sudden backtracking; not when he and Allura had become friends; once partners in leading Voltron.

“It is too late.” She said, and her voice cracks, sharp like a whip; dismissing, indifferent. “It does not matter.” A callous reply over her shoulder as she departed, uncaring of the way he crumbled where he stood.

_You don’t matter._

Keith stumbled a little as he attempted to follow her, to explain, to _apologize,_ but he found her moving away faster and faster, leaving him eons behind her; unable to catch up.

An inconsequential speck of dust, unnecessary- to be dusted off at earliest convenience.

_Unwanted._

The words seem to echo around a distant flickering image of a small boy, and a sea of retreating backs- and the room he was in suddenly converged in on him; too narrow, too low, too closed to prevent the reverberation of the spoken.

Filth _._

Fiend _. Fiend_

Monster _._ Monster _. Monster_

_Unworthy. Unworthy. Unworthy_

Unwanted _._

The words surrounded him, crowding him like a second skin, and Keith found the ache in his heart begin anew: a feeling more like shattering than burning.

* * *

 

Allura was at a loss.

The crown had never felt heavier on her head.

The Paladins were splintering: fraught with nerves and worry. She had never seen them like this: not even when Shiro had disappeared.

Allura had felt that acutely, her first fallen warrior, but the need to keep moving, their decisive victory against Zarkon had propelled them through.

On one level, it hadn’t truly registered.

There _had_ been uncertainty there, but Keith’s relentless drive had also been one of the key factors keeping them optimistic.

This… this was a new threat, and the way Keith had just blinked from existence, hoarse scream at his lips…

She couldn’t help but imagine the worst.

She shivered, wrapping her arms tighter around herself as if to stop herself from crumbling, as if to ward away the downward spiral of her thoughts.

Allura looked sideways, and felt her heart twist when she caught sight of Coran. His face was drawn, exceptionally pale against the vibrant orange of his hair.

He was caught a millennia away; in memoriam of the son he had lost to the Galra.

Felton had been a kind, gentle man; quieter and shyer than his eccentric father. A scholar through and through. He had been the light of Coran’s life, and Allura had always looked to him as an older brother. She could still remember his striking verdigris eyes- crinkling in good humour- and wavy auburn hair set atop a pleasant smiling face. 

She swallowed back the lump in her throat as she remembered back to when the news of him being taken as a prisoner of war had reached Altea.

The way the Galran ship who had caught him had broadcast his execution.

The keening sound that Coran had let out, as he crumpled to the floor; the ashen look on her father’s face.

She felt tears well as the memory washed across her, and blinked them rapidly away.

 _Keith_.

Allura couldn’t help but remember with a pang of regret, a pang of cold fear, the horrid things she had said to him. The way he had just taken it with downcast eyes.

She had been so _wrong_.

She had apologized to him, but it felt so trivial now; he had deserved more of an apology for the accusations she hurled at him.

Allura should have told Keith that he was the reason she had trusted the Blade, and in no small part, the reason they had survived their reckless suicidal strike at the heart of the Galran Empire.

That he was the reason she had made it through Shiro’s disappearance without falling into an endless spiral of guilt and misery.

Guiltily- knowing it was wrong of her to think it- she wished Pidge hadn’t found her brother, that it hadn’t come down to a trade between Keith and Matt.

Matt was a stranger. Keith was a friend, a confidante, a kindred spirit forged in steel, fiery pragmatism and lonely determination.

A true friend- and all it had taken was looking past her bias.

Matt was a stranger but Keith had become family.

Allura wasn’t at the position where she could afford to lose any more of her family.

She closed her eyes and prayed; to Alfor, to the forgotten gods of Altea, to the stars and the galaxies, to anything that she hoped would listen.

 _Please_.

_Give me strength, give me composure._

_Give us time._

_Keep him safe._

* * *

 

It was dark, it had been dark for a while now.

It wasn’t the comforting embrace of night, the onyx coat of Black’s protection; it was a much deeper pitch- the unfriendly kind that absorbed light, and any and all cues of sight.

Smothering sable.

Keith couldn’t say how much time it had been.

All he knew for certain was that he had hallucinated, or been shown a vision of Allura saying things that had haunted him- still haunted him.

It wasn’t real, though.

Keith knew better.

It was the Prince- _Lotor,_ he reminded himself- attempting to break him.

But Keith knew better; knew Allura better.

Yes, there had been a time in between where those were valid concerns- valid elephants in the room- but she had taken time, and come around to him.

That was a different time, they were different now.

_Why does it feel like you’re assuring yourself?_

It was cold and quiet; the loudest thing being Keith’s own heartbeat in his ears, and the systematic inhale, exhale of breath. It might have been more vicious than usual in an attempt to stave off that last oddly intrusive thought.

It was dark and cold, and Keith was alone with his thoughts.

He couldn’t help the way the words Vision-Allura had spoken reverberated back to him, an echo in the dark.

He stayed in that void till he was entirely numb, body and mind- unable to remember why he was there in the first place.

* * *

 

Keith opened his eyes, rousing from a sleep he didn’t remember being lulled into, and was blinded.

The air seemed too hot, too cloyingly warm on his chilled body, and the sensation of being trapped in a humid box of air nearly made him gag.

He was uncomfortable, once again on a hard floor, and an attempt to curl up in a protective ball, told him he was also restrained.

He breathed in, once, twice, thrice; willing his body to acclimatize before cracking open an eye slowly.

He was in a cell; Spartan but well-lit, warm and cheerily furnished with the barebone necessities. Keith frowned to himself at the implications; it was unsettling.

He let it lie, turning his head to see what was holding him in place.

His bindings were less extreme than before, he seemed to have enough of a range of motion afforded to him that he could walk the cell end to end if he wished.

The chair, the cot, the toilet; he could reach them then. There was even a shirt on the cot.

Keith’s scowl twisted a little deeper, what was the _game_ here?

He tentatively rocked to his feet, and felt his body complain in cuts and bruises aplenty. There was a slash across his heart, resultant of the knife that had been embedded there, but it looked months old compared to the…

Well, Keith wasn’t actually sure how much time had passed, but he hadn’t come face-to-face with the Pri- Lotor- in a while.

The wound still throbbed, and it made him uneasy as he recalled how it hadn’t even bled.

He swallowed, and limped a little across the room. The stereotypical bars were missing, and the space seemed to be framed by solid windowless panels of wall. His shackles- one around his wrist, the other his ankle- were attached to one of them.

His limbs still hurt from the last time he was bound; a concentrated ache in his shoulders and wrists. The feeling hadn’t entirely returned to them, even an indefinite amount of time later.

It was weird, he found himself musing absently, how much everything bordered around time; how little things made sense, with nothing to adequately judge its passing by.

This room and its adequacy; its thoughtful decoration unnerved him.

Keith sent another wary look around his prison, there was nothing apparently threatening; it just wasn’t the prison he had anticipated.

He shook his arms and legs out, wincing only a little when the shackles chafed.

He gingerly raised a hand to touch one of the walls, and was immediately pushed to his knees by a debilitating wave of current, a cry of pain escaping him.

Ah. That made more sense then.

Keith was only just picking himself off the floor, pondering what to do, what to plan, what to expect, when one of the walls suddenly flickered, becoming translucent.

He jumped despite himself, and quickly armoured himself with a bracing coat of anger.

It was Lotor, smile on his face.

Keith growled at him.

“Room not to your liking, _Keith_?” there was a soft emphasis to his name that had Keith’s hackles rising, a reminder of how he had whimpered on the floor while a coldly furious Lotor had twisted the knife in his heart and demanded it from him.

There was none of that anger in the charming, pleasantly curious expression on the Prince’s face.

A man of masks; a man with whom you see only what he wants you to see.

Keith wasn’t sure of how to proceed with him; plotting, commandeering the room, deception were not his forte.

 _Lance_ _would have known what to do, h_ is mind supplied.

Lance was not, will never be here. He was safe, they were all safe; that’s what mattered.

Keith braced himself, glaring a moment at Lotor- who aggravatingly kept that smile on his face as he waited for his response- before he finally bit out a reply. “What is your game?”

Lotor laughed, and leaned one shoulder casually against the translucent wall. “So straightforward.” He said, crossing his arms gracefully, ivory hair shifting effortlessly into place.

Keith found himself unbearably annoyed at the lithe movement. “What do you fucking want?” he snapped.

Lotor merely looked at him a moment, intelligent gold eyes steady- and then as if he hadn’t heard him- continued, answering his previous demand almost whimsically “ _Life’s_ a game, don’t you think?” He looked away, into the beyond, a shadowed area not visible to Keith.

Keith wanted to throttle him. He started forward in mind-clouding aggression before he caught himself and remembered distantly. _Patience yields focus._

This fucker was trying to incense him.

Keith was better than that, god damn it.

He sucked in a sharp breath, and held himself still. “Okay, I’ll bite. Let’s say I agree with you.” Keith narrowed his eyes, gritted his teeth as if trying to set him on fire with his mind alone. “What. Is. Your. Point?”

Okay, maybe he _wasn’t_ better than that. Keith was about ninety percent composed of anger and irritation.

Lotor was _infuriatingly_ calm by contrast. “My point, little Paladin, is that games should be fun. Don’t you agree?”

“I’m not _interested_ in your games.” Keith huffed, forcibly keeping his voice level. It took more effort than he wanted to admit.

“I think you’ll be interested in this one.” Lotor’s eyes gleamed a little, and Keith stiffened.

Something wasn’t right.

Something wasn’t _right_.

He could feel a coil of dread mingling with sixth sense- a hard pit in his stomach.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Blue Paladin?”

Keith’s heart sank straight through to the floor.

Two of the faceless soldiers he had encountered before came in, dragging a very familiar, frantically struggling figure by the arms.

_No._

Lance _._

_No no, please no._

_“Keith?”_ he yelped _,_ and Keith was torn between never looking back, and never looking away.

They forced him to his knees, roughly, yanking his arms back behind him in a way that screamed borderline dislocation based on the angle. Lance cried out in pain, and it was familiar, and it was _never_ what he had wanted.

 _No_.

No no no.

“I’ll _play_. What do you _want_ from me?” Keith snarled, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“Not quite so harshly.” Lotor said, almost affectionately soft, turning his head to look at his soldiers, and they instantly loosened their grip.

It was unclear whether he had spoken to Keith, or his dogs.

Lance lifted his head marginally to look at Keith, and the fear, the _apology_ in his eyes… it killed Keith.

“TELL ME _WHAT_ YOU WANT.” He snapped, he knew he was breaking- giving Lotor what he wanted, but that look shouldn’t be on the face of any of his family.

Lotor’s eyes narrowed, and the room went very quiet, barring Keith’s angry breathing.

“Ask me nicely.” He said, very carefully, almost delicately, glancing back at where Lance was on the floor.

There was a _crack,_ splitting the air like a slash from a whip, and Lance _howled_ \- the sound seeming to stretch unendingly in the silence _._

“ _I WILL KILL YOU. I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU.”_ Keith cussed, besides himself in fury, jerking forward, slamming a fist on the wall.

The electric shock jolted him back several feet, and he hit his head on the cot.

“ _Ngh_.” Keith groaned, head reeling, throbbing, as he forced himself up on shaking legs.

“I don’t care for your tone, _Keith_.” Lotor said, deliberately examining his nails, suddenly bored. “Play nicely; if you can’t _share_ , you won’t be getting the toy.”

Lance let out a low cry of pain, a soft whimper he was clearly trying to stifle.

 _The soldiers had snapped his arm like a twig;_ it was hanging at a sickening angle, and Lance was in obvious distress.

Keith felt his brows furrow in concern, as he swallowed the anger in successive heaving breaths; it was humiliating to have to be quiet but the message had been clear... co-operate, or Lotor would take it out on Lance.

Keith desperately wanted to call to Lance, but he couldn’t afford to take his eyes off the viper that was the Prince.

“I _apologize_.” Keith said stiffly, and it seemed to burn his tongue coming out.

“Thankyou.” Lotor said graciously, and strolled backwards, nearer to Lance than the panel. “Now, I’ll ask you a question, and you try to answer it as best you can, hm?”

Keith nodded jerkily, keeping his eyes on Lance who was gasping in pain.

Lotor smiled, and condescendingly patted Lance’s head; The paladin yanked his head away, grimacing. “Where is the Red Lion?”

Lance lifted his gaze the slightest, warning clear in his pained blue eyes. _Don’t, Keith._

“I don’t know.” Keith replied, lip curling, even as his eyes remained on the Blue Paladin.

_Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you, you fuckface._

Lotor’s grin widened as if he knew what Keith had not said. “ _Eloquent_. Who pilots that Castle ship?”

 _Allura_. Keith could not reveal her if Lotor did not know. “Commander Iverson _.”_ He said, with all the regretful conviction he could muster- a solid attempt to sell the bald-faced lie.

Lotor made a half circuit around Lance, standing directly behind him, hand still on his head- like a perversion of the childhood game of duck-duck-goose.

Keith didn’t know why he thought of that, but the bile in his throat became acid as the soldiers shifted.

He almost sensed it coming, the next crack of breaking bone resounding in the room, but nothing could have prepared him for the terrible finality of the echo. Lance screamed, but Keith almost couldn’t hear it over his own shout of “NO.”

“Try again.” Lotor said pleasantly.

“ _It’s the truth, it’s the truth, I_ swear _._ ” Keith had only barely remembered to not hit the glass, only barely remembered to insist on the lie.

 _Lance_ , L _ance_ , _Lance_.

“Oh, I _believe_ you. I just didn’t like the answer.” Lotor’s voice was so light, so upbeat; he could have been informing Keith that Christmas was going to be snowy.

Keith hated him more intensely, with every rolling desperate scream that came out of Lance’s mouth.

“Who is the pilot of the Black Lion?”

Keith swallowed, and hesitated.

 _Shiro_.

“Keith, NO. _Don’t_!” Lance shouted, voice ragged, petering out to silence as the soldiers pushed his head back down roughly.

Lotor half-turned to look back at him, eyebrow rising questioningly.

He had to believe in Lance, respect his wishes; trust his counsel.

“I am.” Keith said, finally, clenching his hands to disguise the trembling.

Lance was a survivor, _he wouldn’t give in_. He wouldn’t allow Keith to, either.

He _had_ to believe that.

Lotor gave him a scrutinizing once over, sighed, and turned away.

“It’s not a lie, _it’s not a lie.”_ Keith said frantically.

Lotor ignored him.

“ _IT’S NOT A LIE._ ” Keith yelled, desperation bleeding into his tone.

The Faceless bastards simultaneously yanked at Lance’s arms, and he let out a half-scream, half-sob that sounded a lot like the word _please_.

 _Please, please, please_ no _._

Lance’s face was losing colour rapidly, and Keith felt his anger slipping to fear and resignation.

_I’m sorry, Lance. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

There was no connection, no feedback, and no sense of lingering bond.

_They were alone._

There was nothing he could do; no safe option.

They would keep hurting Lance if Keith didn’t tell Lotor what he wanted.

Lotor would destroy the Paladins- and the tyranny of the Galran Empire would continue- if he did.

Shiro, Pidge, Hunk, Allura, Coran, and the faceless, nameless millions on one side of the scale. Lance- the paladin who had become one of his best friends, his family- on the other.

There was no good solution.

Keith swallowed, and forced his back up straight, and sucked in the breaths that threatened not to come.

_One against millions._

_I’m sorry, Lance. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

There were tears in Lance’s blue eyes, his face was so drawn, but his mouth was resolute. He kept his gaze steadily on Keith.

Keith was shaking; trying to contain a maelstrom of misery and potent fury.

Lotor’s mouth tightened from where he stood observing Keith. When he spoke it was a lazy drawl. “How very cold you are.”

Keith flinched, but stood his ground.

Lance whimpered.

“Disappointing.” Lotor shook his head, and walked out. “Cripple him.”

“NO.” Keith yelled, his vocal cords hurting with the strain.

He smashed forward into the panel, the shock coursing through him but barely registering even as it flung him back, again and again and again.

“NOOOOO.” Keith howled, and as he bounced off the wall one final time; he couldn’t feel his legs, couldn’t find the strength to rise up.

Fear seized Keith’s heart in its cold grip. He did not look away from Lance, even from his motionless position, face pressed to the floor.

He physically couldn’t.

_“I’m sorry, Lance. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”_

The Faceless moved in tandem; one restraining Lance who had weakly begun to struggle once more.

“ _Lance.”_ Keith’s voice was frantic.

He was crying in terror, the silent sobs of a resigned man.

It hurt to look at, and Keith was helpless.

The other snapped his spine; louder than any gunshot, it rang out in the room, and _lingered_.

 _Crack_.

Keith screamed wordlessly, uncontrollably, as Lance went limp, and somehow propelled himself forward in a surge of desperation; he hit the wall as it became solid once more, unable to stop himself.

His fists were bleeding, his throat seeming one more sound away from the same, and the voltage kept coursing within his body, painful jolts and burning, until everything went black.

* * *

 

Lance was going out of his mind to put it mildly.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, his mind wouldn’t stop screaming, and his legs were jittering, his teeth rattling in his head.

The static in his head was compounded by the last instant, the cry at Keith’s lips, the ship blinking out of existence.

He had to be okay.

Keith _had_ to be okay.

The last thing Lance had said was, _“Dude, one day your glory-seeking ass will so come back to haunt you.”_

That couldn’t be the _last_ nonsensical _thing he ever said._

Lance had always been the kind that cared too much, felt too much; what had started from envy and insecurity- and some misguided rivalry- had developed into a playful back and forth- a teasing camaraderie based on respect and fondness.

It felt wrong for Keith to be gone.

The uncertainty was killing Lance.

He couldn’t find his smile, he couldn’t find the chatter to alleviate some of the other paladins’ distress; he was splintering, lips trembling despite attempts to still them; tears on just the verge of breaking free.

Lance bit his lips, and demanded a rescue plan- anything, _anything-_ and pretended not to notice how Allura was holding herself only marginally together; how Pidge was overcompensating with their over-analyses; how Hunk was eyeing everyone nervously, face deeply concerned, hands wringing his headband; how Coran stared unseeing; how Shiro was falling to pieces, uncaring of composure or leadership.

Lance looked at Matt, silent and sad, and felt irrationally angry; cheated of a brother-in-arms, all for a stranger.

* * *

 

It was dark, it was dark, and it was cold.

It wasn’t silent though; it wasn’t silent because Keith was shouting at the top of his lungs.

“LANCE.”

_Please be okay, please._

“LOTOR, YOU FUCKING BASTARD! I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL _END_ YOU!”

Keith was running on fumes, anger beginning to fade into cold, naked fear as his mind replayed the resounding snap, again and again, and again.

No mercy, no reprieve.

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!”            

 _Crack_.

“WHERE IS HE? _TAKE ME TO HIM.”_

_Crack._

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

 _Crack_.

“YOU WANT ME NOT HIM, LEAVE HIM OUT OF THIS!”

Profanities, shouts, wordless yelling, pleas all fell onto unforgiving ears; into the void; unechoing, unheard.

Keith collapsed to his knees, throat aching, tears falling freely in the absence of anger.

“ _Please_.”

* * *

 

When Keith woke, he was back in the windowless room.

He felt number than ever, body settling into a listless fugue; utterly drained.

His nerves were taking over, and his limbs caught between overheated and freezing, _ached_.

Keith kept his eyes tightly shut as he dropped his face into shaky hands.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

_Are you okay? Is he okay? Will he be okay?_

Breathe, breathe, _breathe_.

_Lance, Lance, Lance._

A softly cleared throat caused Keith’s eyes to snap open, body jerking to a standing position-unwilling to be caught unawares.

The glance around revealed Lotor, standing at the same wall; face calm, eyes cold.

Keith snarled.

“It’s on you, you know?” Lotor said, voice easy even as his face remained arctic. “Shouldn’t have lied to me.”

“I _will_ kill you.” Keith promised, voice low, oath steady. He was very, very still.

He didn’t know how much was from the near catatonia his body was slipping into.

“That attitude is what got your friend’s spine broken.”

Keith started forward, and then lowering his head, heaved in a breath with effort. He exercised restraint dredging up an iron will from god knows where.

It was the most difficult thing he had ever done.

“And I thought you’d never learn.” Lotor’s voice was mocking, amused.

Keith only raised his head and glared.

“Where. Is. He?” _is he alive? Is he alive??_

“You’re in no position to make demands.” Lotor stated, pursing his mouth thoughtfully, seeming to mull over his request. “Especially considering your team is in my grasp.”

Keith choked on air, freezing entirely. _Team?_

“Ah, yes.” Lotor said benignly. “Did I forget to mention that little detail?”

Keith tried to keep himself as quiet as possible, to prevent the scream threatening to erupt.

“Silence becomes you, paladin.” Despite the mockery in his words, Lotor wasn’t smiling, as he stood in front of the panel; very still, posture perfect; a predator on the prowl. “How would you like to continue our game, then?”

 _No_.

Keith heaved in one breath, then another. “ _Please_ -” he started, hating himself but unable to think straight. _Pidge, Shiro, Hunk, Allura, Coran… “_ Please, let them go, I’ll do whatever you _want_.”

For an instant, something like distaste flashed across Lotor’s face, but he turned away before Keith could read it. When he turned back, his eyes were sparkling topaz; beautiful but like their jeweled namesake, hard and cold. “Let’s leave the begging for later, hm?” a sleek grin, resonating falsehood.

That sense of wrongness hit Keith like a freight train, leaving him breathless.

No, no, _no._

A tiny noise escaped him as the guards brought in an unmistakable yellow clad figure.

_Hunk._

They kicked his legs out from under him, and his brown eyes were so fearful, so anxious. His pleasant face, twisted in fear.

“Listen.” Keith’s voice was frantic, and he didn’t care how it sounded, how much ammunition it was giving Lotor, but he couldn’t let the gentle giant suffer; not when he had given such unconditional friendship and comfort to Keith, indulging him in his friendly brand of light humour, and unwavering hugs. “ _Please_ , you don’t need to do this. Don’t hurt him. I’ll cooperate.”

“Will you?” Lotor said, almost disinterestedly. “What is Voltron’s weakest point?”

_It’s value for life._

Keith couldn’t voice it, not when it meant a surefire way of taking the universe’s last hope down.

_Endanger a town, you will summon Voltron; endanger the people and Voltron will bend over trying to save them._

Distract and destroy.

The words were so close to the tip of his tongue; he couldn’t stand seeing his friends hurt anymore… he’d do anything, _anything._

But what would saving one life be worth when it meant enslaving countless others, including their home planet, their families?

Would Hunk thank him for it?

Would Shiro? Would Allura?

Would the _universe_?

Keith felt something inside him break, and he truly hated himself for his silence, for the bare fright on Hunk’s face.

He hated himself for the tears that dripped down his face silently.

Lotor sighed, shaking his head. He waved a hand at his soldiers- four this time- two kept him restrained and one forced Hunk’s mouth open, the other tipped a flask of colourless liquid down his throat.

Hunk’s struggling ceased the minute it hit his throat.

“They call that particular poison ‘Murmuring Death’. Well, I guess you’ll find out why.” Lotor didn’t smile, and looked more than a little put upon.

The glass panel slid open, and shut near instantaneously; Keith, too preoccupied with catching the motionless paladin to even consider escape.

His knees buckled under Hunk’s weight, but he held on, cradling him as best he could with his restraints.

“Hunk?” he called, softly, voice breaking.

Keith didn’t notice when Lotor left, eyes entirely on the Yellow Paladin.

Hunk groaned, mostly unresponsive, except the fluttering of his eyelids.

The sickly sheen on his forehead and neck unsettled Keith deeply. “ _Hunk.”_ Keith said, on the verge of begging.

“K-keith?” w _eak, so weak._

 _“_ Hunk _, buddy,_ please _, please stay up.”_

It was acting way too fast, what was happening, what could he do? _What could Keith do?_

That was when it started.

 _“Keith? Keith? Keith? Keith?”_ an undertone at Hunk’s tongue.

“What is it?” Keith asked frantically, darting a quick glance around, but Hunk’s brown eyes were closed.

“ _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts.”_ Hunk whispered, doe eyes flashing open momentarily, dazed and glazed over.

“What does, Hunk?” Keith asked helplessly. He felt like he was choking under his desperation.

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.” Hunk kept at it, voice shaking and quiet, but relentless.

Keith felt his heart constrict. “How can I help, Hunk? How can I help?” he pleaded.

 _“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”_ With every word Hunk’s voice grew quieter still, his body becoming more and more lifeless by the instant.

Keith felt tears well up, as he asked “ _Hunk_?”

_“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”_

It never increased or decreased in pace or inflection, one endless wail, one endless lament.

 _“Forgive me, Hunk. Forgive me. Forgive me.”_ Keith was sobbing, unashamed, burying his head in Hunk’s shoulder, trying to comfort, glean comfort, anything, _anything._

 _“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”_ It was growing softer now, like it was being drowned out by silence.

And then, Keith felt a pull in his arm and leg, and he was being forcibly yanked backwards.

“ _No_.” he struggled forward- wriggled, thrashed, writhed- to no avail, the restraints- reeling in towards their anchor- were dragging him to the wall staunchly. The friction burned his legs, his arms, but it was the only thing his resistance allowed him.

The destination, the course remained unchanged.

He was slowly being pinned to a wall, unable to touch, to be by his friend in his last breaths. “Hunk, hunk, huuunk.” Keith’s voice, a wrecked cry, was coming to him from a distance now, like his ears too were revolting.

Hunk would die alone; no one deserved that.

Least of all Hunk.

_“Keith? It hurts, it hurts. It hurts.”_

Hunk was dying, and it was killing Keith. _“I know, I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”_

There was no give- no room to move or even shift- to the shackles now, and Keith was propped uselessly against the wall. There was no electricity, but his heart felt like it had been knocked for six, regardless.

_“It hurts, it hurts.”_

From his fixed position he was forced to watch as Hunk’s breathing stuttered.

Keith refused to look away; _your fault, your fault, your fault._

“ _It hurts._ ” Hunk murmured, and then nothing.

No words, no movement.

_He was gone._

* * *

 

Hunk felt queasy in a way unlike anything he’d experienced before.

There was nothing to distract him from the ways the paladins were breaking- each battling their own demons- the way his every thought was for their fallen comrade.

He found himself praying to his grandma’s gods, and it wasn’t comforting.

Not in the least.

Nothing was working.

Was _this_ what loss felt like?

Inconsolable? Devastating? Inimitable?

He wondered how anyone who had ever lost anyone managed to get out of bed; to go about their lives; to live.

Hunk wasn’t sure he would be able to, if Keith was truly lost.

* * *

 

Keith would have welcomed the darkness, but it didn’t come.

He was left in his prison- unable to move, unable to shift- with his friend’s cooling corpse in front of him.

 _Hunk_ , and the name tore the breath from Keith’s lungs.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t look away.

_Hunk. Hunk. Hunk._

The darkness never came.

* * *

 

When the wall converted into glass this time, Keith was motionless.

He didn’t have the energy to rail or fight, or yell.

He was so, so tired.

_Hunk. Hunk. Lance. Lance._

Each name; a guilty beat of his heart.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, how long it had been. The body had been removed some while ago. Keith couldn’t say when.

Keith couldn’t remember the last time he had slept.

Keith couldn’t remember the last time the food the guards had delivered had stayed down.

He had changed into the weird, detachable shirt after it had become too steeped in his own filth and vomit.

He ate the bare minimum, just to stay alive, but that was mostly because the guards had threatened to force the food down his throat, if he didn’t.

Keith felt a haze settle around him, unable to distinguish time from patterns like he had; reality from illusion.

_Hunk. Hunk. Lance. Lance._

For his mind, in disbelief, tried to convince him that Hunk hadn’t really been there, that Lance was safe.

Keith couldn’t be sure.

_It had felt so real._

_Sounded so real._

Lotor tsked, and his voice was almost disappointed. “Broken _already_? What a boring toy.”

Keith didn’t look at him, didn’t respond.

He didn’t know if it was real, but it felt real, and hope was the illusion.

The cruelest poison.

He couldn’t find the strength to hope.

_Hunk. Hunk. Lance. Lance._

“You won’t even play for this green child?”

Keith felt his heart twist within that unsettling feeling of displacement.

For the first time, he lifted his head. “Pidge?” his voice was a croak.

It was them. Unambiguously.

Tiny, feisty Pidge, thrashing with all their might, cussing like a sailor.

The soldiers didn’t quite seem to know what to do with them.

Keith would have been amused if he could have.

“Keith, _Keith_.” They shrieked, horrified at his weird listlessness. “Are you okay? What did they do to you?”

_What they will do to you._

Keith closed his eyes, and Lotor scoffed. “Where’s your fight now, paladin?”

_Hunk. Hunk. Lance. Lance._

Keith breathed for a moment before opening his eyes to look at the Prince sidelong, “Does it matter? You’re going to kill us all anyway.”

“True enough.” Lotor’s eyes glinted, and then, “But first, I do think I’ll play my own games with this bright little child.”

“Fuck you.” Pidge said, voice remarkably even, deadpan. No trace of fear or nerve.

Keith felt his breath catch, and he wished he could remember what that kind of resolve felt like.

_Hunk. Hunk. Lance. Lance._

Lotor smiled a little. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can offer me, to keep this pretty little chit safe?”

Keith let his head fall back against the wall, despondent. “What will you take?”

“Keith, no!” Pidge shouted at him, alarm palpable. “What have they done to you? Fight it, don’t give in.”

“Pidge,” Keith said, “We’ve lost. _We’ve lost._ The best I can do for you _is_ give in.”

 “I would rather _die_ than be the reason you break.” Pidge screamed, a little vicious, straining against their captors.

“Brave words.” Lotor said, almost admiringly.

“Shut the fuck up, slimeball.” Pidge hissed.

Keith half-laughed, half-sobbed, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’ll do whatever you want me to, Lotor. Leave her alone. _She’s just a child_.”

Pidge squawked, indignant, and looked at him horrorstruck. “Keith, what are you doing?”

Lotor studied Keith for a few minutes, watching the way he ignored Pidge, and then nodded. “You have my word for your co-operation.”

_“Keith, what are you doing?”_

Keith felt a spark of energy return to him, and he turned to Pidge a little sadly. “Hunk is _dead_ , Pidgey. Lance… is incapacitated. We’ve _lost_.”

Pidge let out a shocked sob, and seemed to not know what to do.

“I won’t lose you, Pidge.” _I can’t let you be hurt. I wouldn’t return from that._ Keith thought, willing it really hard to reach Pidge, to make them understand.

He could see from their face that they didn’t.

Atleast Lotor led them away, relatively kindly; unharmed.

That had to be enough.

For now, _that had to be enough._

* * *

 

Pidge couldn’t remember the last time they’d slept.

Their eyes burnt from overexposure to their computers, the Altean screens, and whatever tech Slav had left behind.

Hunk brought them their food.

Lance forced his company on them, his way of checking up on their wellbeing. If his eyes were bloodshot and strained too, neither of them commented on it.

Pidge couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop searching for Keith.

Allura and Coran took to babying them, bullying them into bed, into sleep occasionally. (it always came too easily, and Pidge hated that.)

They’d manage to bring him back, no matter the price. They had to believe that, or they’d shatter to inconsolable pieces… Like Shiro, who had made himself mostly scarce; he came to visit Pidge sometimes, sitting silently withdrawn, pale and lost in memories.

Sometimes when he seemed to be doing better, he helped Pidge out with what he could.

Matt too helped where he could, quietly comforting to both Shiro and Pidge, but also a weighted reminder of what Keith had done for Pidge’s sake.

So, Pidge mostly kept shut themselves in their room, and worked like they were on a deadline.

And no matter how they tried not to think about the situation, the thought lingered stubbornly, unpleasantly, that they probably _were._

* * *

 

The silence, the impenetrable shadows, were fraught with tension.

Lotor had taken Pidge, and left Keith alone in the dark.

He had no idea how long it had been.

He had no idea where Pidge was, where Lance was; if they were together, if they were okay.

It was fraught with tension, and Keith found himself wide awake, unable to rest and unable to perceive in the oddly featureless faux-night.

In the dark, it was harder to remember, harder to recall the world _beyond_.

Sometimes, Keith was beginning to wonder if there even was anything other than the noiseless, disconcerting pitch.

* * *

 

Lotor came to collect as Keith figured he would; he was ready for the viper when he showed his face.

Keith raised only his eyes from the huddle he had made in the corner, arms around his knees, face tucked in between them.

“Bed not to your liking?” Lotor asked conversationally.

Keith ignored him, choosing only to stare back.

The only thing holding him together, keeping him in check, was that Pidge was alive; Pidge was safe; their brain would find a way out of this prison.

Until then it was Keith’s job to do what he could to keep the paladins that remained alive.

_Hunk._

A malicious whisper in his head that threatened to stop his heart.

Keith soldiered through.

“Since you don’t seem keen on talking, how about I take you up on your offer?” Lotor asked, clearly attempting to needle him.

Keith deflected it by unresponsiveness alone. He was drawing what flickering strength remained from Pidge’s amber eyes; bright, angry, and very much alive.

If he started to talk, he would scream, and then he would disintegrate into a pile of ash, and misery.

“Alright.” Lotor’s voice was a little displeased. “I’ll just take that as an affirmative.”

Keith stood up, and faced him directly; as if to say, name your price.

_Pick your poison, paladin._

Keith tried not to flinch as the guards came in carrying a shielded bundle between them. It was dumped ungracefully at Lotor’s feet.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

“This is a prisoner. I want to interrogate him.”

Keith swallowed, and kept himself very still.

Lotor seemed to wait a few ticks for his response, but then continued seeming satisfied. “You’ll provide the proper incentive.”

“You want me to be your thug?” Keith asked, quietly, bluntly.

Lotor smiled. “I want you to be my enforcer, Red Paladin.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll kill my friends?”  Keith asked some rage returning to his voice, as he eyed the slightly fidgeting sack on the floor.

“I’d hoped you saw me as more creative than that.” Lotor said, a little petulant; the expression on anyone else’s face could have been categorized as a pout.

Keith just crossed his arms.

“Fine, logistics later.” Lotor sighed. “You will do as I say, or little _Pidge_ won’t fare so well.”

Keith growled a little but nodded. He knew was going to regret this.

“And it won’t be quick or merciful.” Lotor added, a low promise.

The panel slid to form an opening, and the guards chucked the bundle in.

It made a small _oofing_ sound as the air was clearly knocked out of it.

Keith’s heart stuttered.

Lotor smiled. “Help him sit up.”

Keith staggered backwards as he ran his eyes on the most familiar physique of all.

“Do it, _Keith_.” Lotor’s voice resounded with the chill of winter wind.

Keith sucked in a breath, and bent down to hoist the man up to the only chair of his cell.

“Untie him.”

Keith did so, with shaking hands poorly concealed.

“Remove the visor.”

Keith hesitated.

_“Remove the visor.”_

Keith complied, knowing what he’d see.

 _Takashi_.

His face was battered; eyes tired in a bruise smudged face.

Shiro.

He looked at Keith from where he was sitting very straight in the chair- as if it was of his own volition- and smiled kindly, encouragingly.

Keith wanted to fall to his knees and beg Lotor to not make him do this. Beg for Shiro.

Beg Shiro.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Keith.” Shiro’s voice was so soft, so kind.

_Always kind to the feral boy who only brought him wretchedness._

Keith choked, eyes misting over; he darted a glance back to Lotor who was watching with an unreadable look on his face. There wasn’t an inkling of what he was truly thinking.

“Shiro, is it?” Lotor asked, softly.

Shiro looked away from Keith for the first time, nodding slowly.

“Who is your commander, Shiro?

Shiro’s face shuttered, becoming very vacant. He turned his gaze back on Keith.

Keith kept his eyes on Lotor; the Prince stiffening visibly in his periphery. “Hit him.” Keith swallowed, and did nothing.

“Pidge is a small delicate human girl, _Keith_. This is a warship full of pent-up soldiers… my protection only extends _so_ far.” The prince said, very matter of fact, even as his eyes tightened.

“Go on.” Shiro mouthed softly.

Keith’s frown deepened.

“Is that your resignation, _my paladin?”_ Lotor demanded, voice still deceptively gentle. “Hit him, _hard_.”

Keith snarled, but did as asked, whipping his fist back to strike across Shiro’s jaw as solidly as he could.

Shiro almost rocked out of the chair, but caught himself on the arms just in time. He coughed, rotating his jaw a little.

 _Sorry_.

Keith blanched in empathy, but could do nothing as Lotor spoke from behind him. “Again.”

He smacked his right fist into Shiro’s face again, same spot.

Shiro winced and Keith could see the place of impact becoming red under his assault.

_I’m sorry._

_“Again.”_

Three _:_ Shiro toppled sideways out of the chair.

_I’m sorry._

Lotor gave him time to reseat himself before, _“Again.”_

Four; The skin was beginning to break, swell and yet Shiro kept his gentle eyes on Keith- expression understanding.

_I’m sorry._

“Again.”

Five; Keith was losing himself to the rage of being helpless; he was slipping under, he was drowning in guilt and sorrow. He was beginning to lose himself with every attack.

 _I’m sorry._ _I’m sorry._

“Again.”

Keith’s right hand was split at the knuckles, the bones aching. “Please _.”_ He turned to Lotor, unable to obey any further; hurt Shiro any further. “ _Please_.”

Lotor’s topaz eyes remained unmoved. “Again, or Pidge suffers for your disobedience.”

“Do it, Keith.” Shiro’s voice was so soft, so understanding, and oh so _good_. 

And Keith snapped.

He didn’t want his understanding, he didn’t deserve it. He hated Lotor for forcing him into this impossible unforgiveable situation; he hated Shiro for not defending himself, for not stopping him like he was capable of.

Keith hated how much hurting Shiro was hurting him.

Keith sobbed in anger and grief and disgust, and let himself become a slave to the fury under his skin as he hit and hit and kept hitting Shiro; berserk and unable to stop, unable to separate Lotor from Shiro.

He wasn’t discriminating between his hands- left or right- or where it hit, or how hard.

He was uncaring of how Shiro, not even raising his arms to defend himself, toppled and staggered and fell, until Keith was standing over his only half propped-up frame.

He was uncaring of how the bones gave way under his fists, how Shiro’s quiet sounds of pain jumped in and out of focus.

Keith was just unleashing a barrage of relentless strikes that kept making impact, every jolt of agony- in his hands, his heart- seeming to ease him away from his conscience just a little bit more.

From sanity and consciousness.

He kept at it until Lotor called out sharply, “Stop.”

Keith froze, coming into himself at that piercing command.

He looked down, his hands blood-spattered, an unrecognizable blood coated face under them, and felt the beginnings of a deep unending horror.

 _No_. _No. No. No. No._

Shiro’s head lolled, clearly unconscious, jaw hanging just a little _off;_ eyes swelling and darkening, nose spurting copious amounts of blood.

 _No_. _No. No. No. No._

_Keith had done that to Shiro._

_No_. _No. No. No. No._

He staggered back, dropping Shiro to the floor from where he had a hand fisted in his collar; he tugged mercilessly at his hair nearly howling “ _No_. _No. No. What have I done?”_

“Well done, Keith.” Lotor’s voice was so very amused, and Keith wanted to set him ablaze and watch him screaming in agony.

Keith wanted to kill him.

“Shiro? _Shiro_?” Keith asked very afraid, trying to feel for a pulse through trembling hands.

“Thank you for enforcing so, _ah_ , thoroughly.” Lotor said smoothly. “One would think you _enjoyed_ it.”

Keith roared angry and desperate and frantically furious and flung himself at the translucent panel.

At Lotor.

He barely even felt the electricity surging through him as he yelled profanities at Lotor, not hearing what was even said, trying to somehow _somehow,_ make it through to hurt the imperial Galran bastard.

Lotor only laughed and kept laughing until the eventual accumulation of electricity knocked Keith out.

* * *

 

Shiro wasn’t doing well.

His nights, his waking thoughts, they were all consumed by Keith- occasionally interspersed with a flashback from his own stint at captivity.

The Black Lion was no comfort, equally adrift in the pain _fear_ worry.

He couldn’t remember what composure had felt like, let alone _emulate_ it.

It had been approximately a month, and there was no sign, no leads; they were all grieving in their own ways, but Shiro- he was falling apart.

_Some leader you are._

He wasn’t there for any of his team, for Allura, too caught up in his own personal demons.

Shiro was crumbling, crumbling, crumbling, and he couldn’t quite remember how to piece himself together.

_Pathetic._

Keith had always been there to help him do it; duct taping him together with his sarcasm and soft eyes, sharp yet gentle smile.

He hadn’t realized how much he counted on Keith’s support.

He hadn’t realized until it had been ripped away, and Shiro was left struggling to stand.

* * *

It was dark, it was dark, it was dark.

Dim and unforgiving; unforgiveable like Keith’s soul, like Keith’s soot-stained heart.

_Shiro._

The dark was starting to feel less intrusive, and more like an old friend, now. It was preferable to the experiences of the light. The room with its furnishings, and unbearably life sustaining appearance, felt more like the cruel prison than whatever this small, closed fissure was.

_Twined with the screams of his friends._

Atleast the darkness meant reprieve, atleast it meant he would be alone to dwell in his misery and despair.

_Even laced with the haunted echoes of laughter._

Atleast it meant he could drift and forget, if only for a moment.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback Plea: 
> 
> Please do leave comments regarding how understandable this chapter was/ how much the breaks and jumps and point of views shifting made sense (or didnt?)
> 
> there is a reason for all of it, i just want to know if it conveyed itself. 
> 
> Also i'm sorry. I kind of truly am. 
> 
> (I tried to compensate by making it one massive chapter rather than three small ones as earlier planned though, forgive me?)


	7. Soak the Place, Light the Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it was easier; sometimes, every inhaled breath didn’t feel like ashes going up, blocking his throat. Sometimes, though, it felt like searing lava; bubbling acid desiccating everything it came into contact with.  
> Sometimes, the air just didn’t come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always the response from you guys blows my mind and validates my being. Thankyou so much for being so kind while i am so cruel to everyone's favourite baby boy.  
> I love each and every one of your comments and they all go a long way making my muse get up and go go.
> 
> I've been excited for this chapter for a while. I hope you guys will enjoy it too.

* * *

Hunk was fidgeting; shifting his weight from one foot to the other- Keith could practically feel the weight of those doe-brown eyes on him from where he slumped low in the chair within the Bay.

It once had been his, but nothing really felt like _his_ ; not when it all barely even seemed substantial; a mere wisp of memory and nostalgia- induced by wishful thinking- just waiting for him to slip up and want it, before it was snatched away.

It looked, smelled, felt, _breathed_ like the Castle; the people even felt like his family; but he didn’t know what he could trust; how to identify which sense wasn’t lying to him.

It’s _always_ a lie.

Don’t trust _anything._

Even as he tried to sink into the happy illusion that surrounded him; friends and family, belonging and _home_ ; Even as he tried to do what he would have done, to say what he would have, he doesn’t forget.

Even his ever-reliable instinct had forgotten the ability to distinguish the ups from the downs; which way the zenith soared- the sun and the air to breathe; which way plummeted into the nadir, the inverse, the cloying depths that resided in his heart.

He doesn’t forget- he can’t forget, he _won’t_ forget.

Hunk shifted, then shuffled, then huffed a breath of air; clearly gearing to speak.

Keith didn’t want to engage; hasn’t been able to find the energy- not that day, or the last few beyond it- to truly look at the ragtag family he amassed in space.

_Only to drag them to hell with you._

Sometimes, it was easier; sometimes, every inhaled breath didn’t feel like ashes going up, blocking his throat. Sometimes, though, it felt like searing lava; bubbling acid desiccating everything it came into contact with.

Sometimes, the air just didn’t come.

Hunk cleared his throat, and his voice was soft and warm: concerned; all the things Keith had ever wished directed at him. “Hey Buddy.”

Keith lifted his head, and he tried, honestly, but the words didn’t come. He just looked at Hunk and prayed for it to be enough.

“You haven’t, um- had anything to eat in a while.”

A small derisive laugh.

Keith’s heart lurched, and he tried not to let the panic show. He wasn’t sure he could keep anything down were he to eat. He just shook his head, attempting a mild smile.

“I could make you something? We found new ingredients that you- uh- haven’t been able to try.”

_Won’t you eat?_

No. Keith wouldn’t be able to stomach it; would end up puking his guts out as the inevitability of reality came seeping back in. Waves upon waves of regurgitating regrets and misery, alongside stomach acid and whatever poison _they_ would feed him.

“Space soba?” Hunk asked, and the tone was so imploring, so beseeching that Keith found his excuses disappearing, like the breath from his lungs.

_Breathe little Paladin, why won’t you breathe?_

Please, no. He tried to voice it, but couldn’t find his tongue, the air to speak.

“ _Please_ , _Keith_.” Hunk’s voice went up an octave, and a thought wrapped in yellow quintessence trickled through. _You’re wasting away, worryingly thin. You look on the edge of breaking._

Keith swallowed at the concern emanating through the paladin bond, and ignoring the headache, the sheer overwhelming nature of it all, tried again; grasping fruitlessly for words.

They don’t come to him.

_So like_ everything _else in your life._

The bond trickles more of Hunk’s thoughts to him, and Keith can feel the headache forming below his eyes.

_Please, I know it’s not much; not much I can do for you, but “_ I can whip up a mean soba. You might feel better?” Hunk’s voice lifts up in the end, hopefully. “You can rest after that?”

_How precious._

Keith can’t take that hope away from him; has never been able to say no to the big guy.

Not even if he’s not real.

Keith was trying, he is trying, and in trying, he smiled shakily, feeling guilty for the way Hunk’s pleasant face brightened, and nodded. “Maybe.”

_Maybe._

* * *

 

Keith woke from fitful sleep- a transparent attempt to get away from the paladins; a pathetic attempt to stave away the headache that seemed ever-present.

That remains, and haunting flashes of nightmares cling to him; purple and gold, on blood and broken bodies. Shameless oaths of _please no, no, no;_ of unvoiced screams for _Shiro,_ lingering, lingering _._

It’s a jarring contrast, the weight of an armful of delicately sharp bird-like bones and a mop of unruly caramel hair tickling his nose.

He startled, the name his nightmares had choked from him, nearly erupting from his throat, but the weight grounded him; his jittering nerves relaxed the minute the scent registered on an uneven gasped breath.

_Pidge_.

Their rain-and-earth-metal smell was becoming increasingly familiar. It had become an almost-habit of late for them; at the end of their seemingly 36-hour day, they'd stop by his room to check up on him.

_Alive_.

Inevitably, they'd curl up somewhere around him, making sure they touched some part of him. It was oddly warm and comforting, striking something deep inside his heart.

Unconsciously, he smiled; the hysteria beginning to fade.

Consciously, he stayed where he was- in Pidge's protective embrace- and felt a little less jumbled than he had, since _before._

_Breathe._

There was a soft choking sound somewhere to his left, and he jerked his head up in panic-  fear and paranoia seeping back in- even as he kept his body carefully still; moment shattering.

It was Shiro, looking far more effected than Keith had expected. His mouth was pulled downwards in an upsetting twist, his eyes gentle but sad.

Keith hadn't heard Shiro come in, and he certainly hadn't expected to see him. His heart constricted painfully as his mind recalled- _broken, bloody, bruised-_ and he clenched his eyes shut tight; to lessen the stimuli he could; to shove away his memory; to regain control over what meagre senses he could.

_Not real. Not real. Not real._

Pidge was real, their warm weight. The room, _his_ room; the bed, _his_ bed; that was solid; that was real.

This darkness, his own choice; his volition.

Shiro sighed, and it was the small, defeated sound that crushed Keith- an additional layer of guilt, atop the fear and suspicion.

Keith forced his eyes open and made himself look at Shiro. He appeared monochromatic in the low light: hair painted in shades of black and white; his eyes, grey- seemingly ancient- and fixed upon only him.

There was fondness in their depths, and perhaps a little forlorn distress- the malicious intent and yellow glow they had housed, nowhere to be found.

None of the lifeless emptiness.

Real.                                                                                                              

Keith swallowed at the sight Shiro made: quietly pensive yet almost mournful, awash in the luminous white and blue of the Castle.

_Real_.

Mindful of Pidge nestled into the crook of his neck with an arm wrapped snug around him, Keith sat up only a little.

_Try_.

“Hi.” he said, carefully.

“Hey.” Shiro replied, a smile curving his mouth, though it failed to reach his eyes.

“Couldn't sleep?” Keith asked, voice quiet.

Shiro shook his head mildly, and just looked at Keith- assessing, blinking, compartmentalizing.

Keith couldn't quite carry the conversation; had never been too good at it- even at the best of times, prone to silence. He didn't know what to say to bridge the distance between his oldest friend and himself.

Didn’t know how to cross the crevasse of nightmare.

“Uh.” _Smart opener._

Shiro's eyes jolted to his, as if yanked from deep thought.

And Keith felt the emotion within like a jolt to his system; didn't know how to keep that despair from the Black Paladin’s eyes; not when he couldn't find the fire under his own skin, at his core; not when he didn't have the energy to fight his own demons; not when he was the cause of it.

Not when it took all of Keith to keep the voices in his head smothered silent.

Keith didn't know how to reconcile the divide inside him: the before and the after. He stood, now, at the edge of the chasm, staring across to who he was- what he had been to Shiro and the rest of his family- and found it inaccessible.

There was a rasping echo of a laugh in his head, originating as if from the abyss.

“No.” The word escaped him, involuntarily- a pained whisper as Keith froze, and if he could have found the terror, the emotion, the desire to live- he might have found the will to fight; to resist, to survive.

He had held it in spades once.

Instead the gorge reached out its shadowed claws and sunk them into him, using the tendrils of night to pull him down below; stealing the breath from his lungs, the words from his tongue, the sight from his eyes.

“I-” _Look at you, tripping over your own tongue, trying to reach your friend. To beg his help. Why are you trying so hard, when he doesn't even speak?_

Keith sucked in a breath, and tried again, scrambling for purchase on the edge of the fissure, “you-” _How precious; you actually think they care about you? You think they'll come for you? Risk Voltron for you?_

_“_ Real?” he gasped out, desperately now, breathing running ragged. _You think this is real? You think there will be salvation? You think it’s that easy?_

“No. No. No. No” his response, a litany, low at his lips.

Keith struggled against the band around his chest, the weight pressing him down, and forced his hands- unforgivingly tight- onto his ears.

The voice, hoarse and cruel like all ancient things are, mocked him, taunted in sharp deadly barbs designed to cripple him.

“ _No_.” He resisted the urge to scream, to thrash: to listen instead.

Steady, even breathing near him, outside his bubble of panic.

He took in deep heaving breaths, envisioning each puff of air: a smokescreen barrier enclosing him and his blind eyes; encasing him in comforting grey.

_Flimsy protection for a pathetic mongrel._

“No.” He resisted the urge to shatter into irretrievable pieces. He focused on his lungs, on his ears: hearing pleas from a familiar, terrified voice- overlapping the sadistic, sardonic laughter

_Three. Two. One._

Breathe.

_Waste of air on a worthless half-breed._

“No.” Keith resisted the desire, the ease of falling to blankness, and he forcibly stilled himself.

Breathe.

_Three. Two. One._

Release _._

“Not. Real.”

_Three. Two. One._

Fleeting relief.

* * *

 

 “Keith?” _Are you okay? Will you be okay? Please be okay._

So many words to say, so many questions to ask; so many assurances both to be given and sought- yet somehow Shiro never really got past the name on his tongue, the lump in his throat.

The guilt, the fear, the _shame, the_ anger, all coalescing into an immovable tumour lodging in his throat.

He could see the Red Paladin struggling to find his words, the intent to always shield Shiro from the worst in himself; Keith, who for an instant had seemed himself, if a little paler, a lot waner.

Shiro wanted to close the rift that was growing between them, but couldn't remember how, couldn't quite recall that sense; that ease of proximity within which they had always existed.

“You-” Shiro started, only to trail off, capability of speech buried under desperate, disparate thoughts. _I can't do this. What do I do? What can I do?_

_“_ I-” _How can I help? I'm sorry I dragged you down.  I'm sorry I failed you. I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner. I'm sorry you're_ different _._

Keith had been an immoveable force, unstopping; driven by pure impulse and instinct for those he cared about. Now, with all that momentum turned inwards, he was less a force and more a natural disaster, minutes from catastrophe.

Keith was shaking, trembling, waging a vicious internal war, and Shiro was leaving him alone- with his thoughts, his body turned traitor- to fight a battle Keith wouldn’t have ( _hadn't_ ) left his side for, were the roles reversed.

An anguished question from bloodless lips, below distressed galactic eyes, on a ragged breath exhaled sharply “Real?”

It broke through the haze of inadequacy, and Shiro hastened forward, ignoring his qualms, ignoring his own selfish screams of wrong _wrong_ wrong- this breaking thing could not- should not- be Keith- and pulled the Red Paladin to him, bracing him with an arm around his shoulder, face pulled to neck.

Shiro dislodged a near-comatose Pidge in the process, but he barely even noticed in his preoccupation; from within his tunnel vision, barely cared.

(He would later feel guilty- think it lucky that when they did sleep, it was like the dead.)

Keith mumbled against his neck, the same mantra over and over; sharp and clipped. No no no no.

It was mirrored in every beat of Shiro's weak heart, seeing the best and brightest thing in his life shatter so completely.

_No no, no no, no no._

Shiro held on tight, through Keith's struggles; as if to forcibly reverse the disintegrating; as if to somehow keep him together- whole; as if h _e_ wasn't to blame _. He was to blame.  He was to blame. He was to blame._

Slowly, the shaking, unevenly rasping breaths slowed.

Keith stilled incrementally with each fractionally steadier breath until he said, with far more presence, far more vehemence. “ _Not. Real._ ”

In the following wave of overwhelming relief that crashed over Shiro, he couldn't tell whether the words he heard next came out of his own mouth, or out of Keith's. _“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”_

* * *

 

Matt was on his fourth cup of the space-equivalent of coffee, more than a little frustrated and fidgety, when Katie- Pidge, he reminded himself- came skulking into the Bay. They were rumpled, hair on end, clearly making their way to their own room.

“YO.” He said- extra loudly, extra cheerfully- just because he could and had missed being able to annoy the extraordinarily not-a-morning-entity that was his sister.

They hissed at him- a legitimate _hiss-_ that had Matt snorting out the unpalatable, unholy brew of orange liquid. It burned coming out, but was worth the momentarily levity in his heart, tears of mirth pouring, keeping with every unamused face Pidge pulled.

They tried to keep the surly façade up in the face of his relentless laughter, but Matt saw the minute Pidge’s mouth pulled up in a little smile- although they turned around to hide it near-instantly.

Pidge walked over to sit with him, filching his cup of space-coffee and taking a longer-than-deemed-polite sip, before slumping onto his shoulder.

It was a relief, amidst everything else, to know that some things didn’t change.

“Mattie?” the words came out uncharacteristically soft.

“Yeah, Kitty?” he said, reverting to an old childhood nickname entirely by default, only realizing something amiss when they jolted.

“Haven’t heard that in a long while.” They sighed, then “does it make me a bad person that I don’t care _how_ we got you back? I’m just grateful for it.”

Matt felt his heart clench a little at the sorrow in their voice, and replied a little torn himself. “I don’t know, Pidgey. I might not have been alive if not for your timely recovery.” He fiddled with the receiver in his hand, pulling at the mixed-up wires almost absently.

“No contact, then?” they asked, voice quietening with the question.

“None.” Matt swallowed, “It’s like there’s dead space where the rebel camps should be. They’re just _not there.”_

The receiver was linked to his- and other notable rebel figures- biometric signatures; linked to _life_. It was not easy to tamper with, or to mislead; that there was no data at all, was unnerving.

It made him feel guilty for abandoning them, complicit in whatever fate had awaited them.

“Don’t do the Shiro thing.” Pidge cut in sharply, suddenly.

“What?” Matt startled, dropping the receiver.

“You’re starting on blaming yourself again: don’t. We’ll find them- figure out what happened; be grateful you’re not sharing their lot. There’s nothing you could have done against an all-out Galra attack.”

Matt’s heart sank a little at the battle-hardened tone his sister’s voice had taken: the fact that they were fighting a war, much bigger than them- the things they had to have seen… he sighed, and felt the effect of the coffee intensify his jittering. He needed to do something, to get this restlessness out of his body. “I know that you’re right, but statistical probability would indicate-”

Pidge interrupted him with something nonsensical that sounded a lot like, “first Shiro, then Slav.”, which what?

A little confused, Matt gave them the stink-eye, and got up. “I’m gonna go- probably play with your Castle’s training deck. This castle has some serious technology, the things I could _tweak_.”

_Run, human. Run._

He shuddered a little as he tried to force away that echo of thought, of memory.

_Always running._

“Matt?” Pidge called out after him, giving him pause.

“He’s doing better, right?” They didn’t look at him as they asked, looking instead at the receiver on the floor. Matt was reminded of the sister he’d known in his childhood, the little genius who had picked up everything so easily, that not knowing left them unsure, scared. “Will he be alright?”

Matt didn’t know if he’d use the term _alright_ with Keith Kogane- not yet- but there was definitely improvement. “Keith doesn’t strike me as the type to give in to anything.”

_Not even himself._

That seemed to be an answer Pidge liked, and their amber eyes lightened. “Yeah.”

“He’ll get there, Katie. We just have to be patient.” _without belittling him in the process._

 The glint in Pidge’s eyes seemed to indicate that they had understood the unsaid just as clearly as everything else vocalized.

Scary little brat, he thought fondly, as he exited, making his way to the deck.

* * *

 

There were six sentries firing without discrimination, and Lance was up against a wall, unable to proceed to the meeting point without sniping them down first.

He stuck his head out from behind the barrier, mentally categorizing their locations, their patterns of fire, only just managing to avoid the last blaster gunning for his position.

They were scattered evenly, neatly assorted into logical patterns of uninterrupted firing ranges.

Too neatly.

_Easy pickings._

Lance shifted his weight between his feet, stabilizing his crouch. Willing the Bayard to materialize in his hand, he let it shift to an elongated rifle, the scope better suited for low visibility firing, and breathed in.

The first two sentries were down in the instant he aimed, clean marks. The rest caught on, targeting him instantly, and he ducked back behind the wall, barely missing the return-fire and forced to re-evaluate his station.

_Holy Quiznak-fucking hell._

He inched away from his last spot, and tried to pinpoint a better vantage.

The problem with the sentries was adaptive awareness, and Lance had been discovered, and he was alone.

It was part of playing the sharpshooter, parcel of being a sniper; the cold, distant kills- the very real chance of being trapped with no back-up, not when he _was_ the aerial support.

He tried not to let it get to him, the seclusion, the ways he had messed up what could have been a clean takedown; the things he could have done better.

The silence didn’t help in keeping his head clear; he couldn’t _afford_ screw-ups, not when it was his team’s lives he would risk.

He still remembered all too clearly, being stuck in an unmoving lion, unable to do anything as Keith was snatched away.

The guilt, the fear escalating to sheer terror at the way Red had roared and lunged- an attempt to follow the vanishing battleship- only to suddenly deactivate and freeze mid-motion.

Half a year of not knowing what that disabling had meant, for the fate of the Red Paladin.

Half a year of sharing the desperate air of an aching Lion.

Half a year of living with consequences of actions, of war, of loss and despair.

Half a _year,_ to recover a splintering stranger in familiar skin.

Never again.

He had to get _better_.

Lance sucked in a breath, and stilled his nerves, his fears; aiming and shooting without visual, extending only his arm, working with the approximation of angle of fire, and projected trajectories. The clattering of metal on the floor, and a sudden cease in firing told him he had likely met his target.

That left three- two if he was lucky.

The sudden silence meant he had no inkling of where they were. He’d have to look.

He snapped his head out, as swiftly as he could manage, there were only two standing facing a place just a little off from his location- he did a mute mental fist pump- and with sudden calm, he stepped away from his hiding spot.

In response to the change in strategy, the bayard shifted to its less sleek form, and he dispatched the remaining two with ease.

_“Booyah.”_ Lance whooped with a little smile to himself- an effort to shake off the gloom and doom of his thoughts.

If he couldn’t convince himself he was okay, how would he convince the others?

He lowered the gun, running an eye on the five metallic bodies prone on the floor.

_Five?_

He whirled at the sudden click behind him, eyes flaring, hands up; entirely defenceless at such close range with a deactivated bayard sheathed at his hip.

_Quiznak,_ he was so _rek’t_.

He imagined saying that to Pidge and hearing their resultant groan- an attempt to distract himself from his failure, his stupid _stupid_ mistake, his losing to the simulation, again.

It almost cheered him up.

But he’d been so close to a clean victory.

The feeling curdled in his gut.

“Watch out!” a sharp cry, and a hurtling body knocked into the sentry now armed with a glowing purple light-sabre like sword.

Black haired, black-clad, intensely reckless.

Infinitely _stupid_. “KEITH!” Lance yelled, rematerializing his bayard, and opening fire on the Gladiator/sentry.

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated that Keith was acting like himself again, if momentarily.

The emotion was stilted though, edging more towards irritated, as he couldn’t get a clear shot, what with agile _fucking_ Keith darting around the robot, sidestepping the anticipated patterned movement.

_Show-off._

But, what Keith didn’t account for was that Matt (with a little input from Pidge) had reprogrammed the gladiators, for better training sequences, to fight dirty and far less expectedly.

More realistically.

They couldn’t afford having kiddie gloves on, not when a war waged outside their doors.

Keith was fast- still fast- dashing nimbly around the Gladiator, avoiding the strikes. From his supervisory position, however, Lance could tell the instant he made a mistake; could tell all the ways Keith was faltering, still unsteady, that characteristic instinctual ease of impetus not quite present.

He dodged a strike with a small staggering leap sideways, and landed far too close, far too vulnerable, and the Gladiator darted into his blind spot; grabbing Keith’s hair in a vicious metallic tug, lifting with one hand, and raised his glowing sabre up front; to terminate the fight with a would-be fatal blow to the unarmed Red Paladin.

Lance opened his mouth to shout, when he caught the look on the panicking paladins face; it was a little out of place for a training simulator; stationary in horror, caged, cornered with no escape.

The sudden freezing reminded Lance of Shiro, back when the flashes of traumatic memories had been erratic and new, and he paused with the painful realization of just how awful Keith’s _stay_ with the Galra must have been.

_What_ it must have been: Shiro had returned, visibly changed but Keith, for all intents, had looked the same.

Maybe they had assumed too much in thinking that he would be okay.

Maybe the real insidiousness was in that _they couldn’t see_ what had been done to Keith.

Lance opened his mouth to call an emergency end to the simulation, when Keith’s expression of bleak despair shifted; turned angry, almost desperate in his fury.

Instinctual. Frantic. Vengeful.

He grabbed the metallic arm elevated above him in a killing strike, halting its descent with one hand- adrenaline granting strength- while his other reached at his belt, snatching out a small-ish hunting knife that had been concealed there.

Keith used the dagger to slash through his hair, above the clench of the metallic fingers at his nape, and staggered forward; free.

Unthinking. Wild. Extreme.

Lance saw it happen with disbelieving eyes, almost unable to process the fleetness of Keith’s turnaround, the sheer agitation in his face as he faced off against the relentless Gladiator; the remnant hair falling to the floor, forgotten; trampled underfoot as he ducked the subsequent strikes.

He had cut _through his hair._

Keith _hadn’t recognised_ that this was merely training, and to get away, to escape, _he had hacked through his own hair._

“END SIMULATION.” Matt shouted, eyes wide, fixated on the scene in front of him- them.

The gladiator froze, and disintegrated into pixels, taking the purple of the simulated Galra ship with him.

Keith was shaking, face white as the walls, and his hair was halfway _gone;_ sharp, ragged edges falling into his face.

Matt swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “Shit. I didn’t _realize_.”

Didn’t realize that this could be an eventuality; a trigger to a barely-there Paladin whose default had once been to train himself to the bone.

Lance jerked back to himself, and forced himself not to run to Keith’s side. “ _Keith_ , nice save there, my dude. I owe you.” _What the hell. What the hell. What the_ fucking _hell._

His orchid eyes were darting from wall to wall, caught in a haze of alarm and memory. “ _Castle_? Real?” he asked, sharply, turning glazed sight to Lance.

Matt made a small dismayed sound, but Lance ignored him in favour of the skittish Paladin.

“Yeah, man.” He assured him, softly, reaching out slowly to grab Keith’s outstretched hand; Keith let him, lowering the knife, allowing it to clatter to the ground. “It was a simulation, I was training.”

Keith swallowed, throat convulsing. There was so much neck visible without his hair curtaining it; pale, elegant, veined- pulse thrumming with fight or flight.

_Fight, Keith would always fight._

“Not gonna ask if pigs are flying?” Lance said, intentionally casual, nonchalant- donning his favoured mask of smug, arrogant wonder-boy; completely oblivious to the elephants in the room, completely unaware of anything but his preoccupation with himself.

“What?” Keith rasped, keeping himself still with visible strain, his hands were shaking a little against Lance’s palm.

Lance could read the urge to _flee_ , not the fight he associated to Keith, and felt that same jolt of intuition strike him again- that same sense of irrevocable change.

What had Keith been through that he saw danger where there was none?

What had he _seen_ that had triggered him into an instinctual desire to _run_ ; extreme enough that to get away from an Altean training bot, he had sliced through his _hair?_

Which, on a completely superficial tangent, _transformed_ Keith’s face.

With the weight lost to captivity, his sharp features appeared even harsher, pointier; and his soft mane of hair was no longer there to moderate the angles of his jaw, his neck; the sharp slope of his nose. The difference was stark, and he looked more the warrior he had been, if not the undemanding boy that everyone had come to know and love.

He looked deadly, and severe, especially with the narrowed glare of his eyes; especially with the charcoal smudges of exhaustion below them, the lethal cutting ridge of cheekbone.

He looked like a weapon, and Lance couldn’t read any of the softness of the boy he had known.

“Oh, you _knoww_.” He drawled, flapping his hand non-chalantly- ignoring the twinge in his heart, the anchor, the dead weight of insight. “I was training while you snored away in your bunk? The future is clear, buddy: I’ll be fit and fighting, while you develop a fat gut and go bald.”

Keith’s breathing evened a little more with each ridiculous word out of Lance’s mouth, his face losing that harsh edge, giving way to his usual confused expression; pinched brows, slight pout to the mouth.

_There you are._

“The world as you know it is changing, Keithy boy.” Lance said, with excess dramatic flair, gesturing to himself as he tried not to let his relief show. “I’m the face of victory, now.”

Keith’s face slipped into an almost smile, as the vestigial tension drained out of his frame. “You’re the face of _shit_.”

It was the first barb Keith had returned since his, well, _return_. Despite the taunt- the small voice niggling at the back of his head, murmuring its agreeance- Lance felt a smile split his mouth wide. “Fuck _you_ , ex- _Mullet_.”

Keith let his head fall back with a soft laugh- even if it was a lot quieter, and rang a little hollow- that metamorphosed him back to the boy they’d lost, the hardness of expression he had glimpsed, vanishing.

Lance couldn’t hide his relief as he thumped to the floor, even as he outwardly griped about jerkass show-off’s who didn’t know real talent when they saw it. He would willingly put on a million and one more masks, to prevent that terror from crossing Keith’s face, ever again.

There you _are._

There you are _._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shitty edit belongs to me. (EDIT CANT SEEM TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO POST THE PICTURE WITHIN THE FIC TO AO3,(it doesnt show up -.-) pls help) 
> 
> alternatively: you can find said shitty edit [here](http://theincrediblesulkmachine.tumblr.com/post/164905498587/couldnt-decide-which-one-i-liked-better-yes-i)
> 
>  
> 
> Don't kill me. *hysterical laugh*


	8. World Turns to Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was an unending series of nightmares that Keith couldn’t seem to wake from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright my dudes, as always a quick shout out to all you lovely people reading, and leaving their comments both here and in my tumblr inbox; you guys are the best, and go a very long way in inspiring me for this fic. I always end up updating earlier than i anticipate, and you fellas can thank yourself for that :'D
> 
> This is a short update, for which i apologize in advance but it is a necessary evil to really get into what is coming up next. i have 70% of my plot arcs filled out, all that's left to do is write it (*WELP*) and i truly wish to get a big chunk out before s4 hits and changes the direction of my thoughts.
> 
> A little warning cause its going to get a bit... descriptive. 
> 
> Here we go!

**  
**

* * *

_This isn’t working._

* * *

 

It was an unending series of nightmares that Keith couldn’t seem to wake from.

They were disjointed enough that the lack of continuity was jarring- palpable enough but not entirely there in sensation- but what truly agitated Keith was the lack of control.

He was freefalling from one fragmented hallucination to another; He couldn’t slow or stop or even pause; there was no handhold, no seatbelt, no safety net.

He couldn’t differentiate up from down, right from left, genuine from imaginary; not when they were all the components of his worst fears; not when they all felt hauntingly real.

Sometimes it was Shiro, eyes glowing a wicked ochre, soft mouth pulled in a taunting smirk; nothing recognizable in the most well-known of faces. The familiar mechanical arm, driven into the soft skin of his stomach in unfamiliar punishing ways- the familiar hands stained in familiar reds… just entirely unexpectedly.

Shiro’s smile would be at its softest as he fastened his hands around Keith’s throat- no discrimination between human and Galra-tech. A mockery of the kindness Shiro embodied, as he choked the lights, the life out of Keith’s eyes.

Leisurely, savoring it.

If it was truly a hallucination, there was nothing short or simple about it; Keith was present for the bruising force of every finger on his windpipe; the familiar warmth, the shape, the press of Shiro’s hands; unyielding; constricting.

The heave of Keith’s chest, the gasp of his breath as he tried and tried, but failed to ease the pressure building in his lungs. His futile grasp at Shiro’s wrists in an attempt to make him let up. The helpless nearly inaudible rasp of Keith’s voice as he unsuccessfully tried to reach Shiro, to say his name.

 _Shi-ro;_ broken, pathetic in its ineffectiveness.

The burning tears welling in his eyes- of pain and helpless humiliation- the pointless thrashing as he struggled and struggled and struggled, a foot off the ground. The inevitable way his body seemed to stop responding, limp like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The way his entire head went numb, silent and echoing.

The way Keith inescapably faded with a field of yellow emblazoned across his blurred vision; his last flickers of awareness keeping time with the spreading horror, the returning slate-grey of Shiro’s eyes.

The despair, the slight keening sound Shiro let out that made Keith want to go to him, to console him.

But he was falling _falling;_ a galaxy of bruises and cold, deep, empty space behind darkened eyelids.

_Too late, too late._

 

* * *

_I don’t_ understand _._

* * *

Other times it was Keith, armed to the teeth slashing at a defenseless, pleading Shiro.

 _Keith; it’s me. Shiro. Come_ on _buddy. Snap out of it. Please, Keith, please. This isn’t you._

It’s not you, it’s _me_ , it’s you, it’s _you_.

The meanings of the words began to blur, as Keith was driven on by virtue of inertia and instinct alone. Shiro stumbled, and staggered, inevitably falling back; an almost doubtful terror overtaking his eyes.

_Please._

_Not me, not me, not me._

An almost offhanded slash, a spatter of blood originating at Shiro’s face; Keith’s mark- only narrowly missing his grey, grey eyes.

A small choked cry versus a small pleased smile.

_Keith, it hurts. Please._

A soft, lingering caress with the backs of pale, ungloved fingers through the blood sliding down the conventionally handsome face.

 _Keith_?

The hope, the gleaming silver even in cloudless grey skies.

Ridiculous.

A casual twist of the other hand, the knife buried to the hilt in Shiro’s stomach.

The spurt of warmth gushing, painting his fingers in lifeblood.

The soft breath of disbelief, of betrayal; the popping bubble of blood at his lips; the subtle sound the sweetest of symphonies.

The hoarfrost eyes going sightless as Keith avidly took in every second of the dwindling light.

Beautiful.

 _Tragic_.

Almost as beautifully tragic as the realization that Shiro was dead, bleeding out at his hands, _over his hands,_ and Keith felt nothing less than satisfied.

 

* * *

_Stop resisting._

* * *

 

Lance made his appearances often, between the Shiro’s; between the edges of one and another; the glue.

While Keith was falling, while Keith was screaming, while Keith was begging, he would see Lance.

It was a lot less involved.

It was a lot less avoidable.

Keith was helpless, and he watched, and he watched and he _watched_.

It was deceptively simple.

The _crack_ of his right leg splintering, the scream of a boy who had never known this kind of cruelty, this kind of pain.

The scream, the profanities at Keith’s lips, as they snapped it again, over and over until the bone stuck out in sharp bony fragments.

A mess of bone white, misery and blood marring the once smooth caramel skin.

Keith sobbed and Lance screamed and screamed and screamed.

They moved on to his arms, his fingers, his knees, his hip, his shoulder, his spine, his spine, his _spine_.

Two hundred and six.

Resounding, echoing, the terrible sounds magnified a hundred fold until it was all that rang in Keith’s ears amidst the howls and screams.

 _Crack_ , sob, _crack_ , scream, _crack, crack, crack._

An endless loop of senseless misery, of agony and the melancholy of the helpless.

They broke Lance, they broke him, and broke him and inexorably left him to rot, shattered in a puddle of his own blood, sweat, tears, urine and vomit. 

Not dead, but dying, slowly insufferably.

No relief, no relief.

When Keith would finally manage to scream his name, only his blue eyes could travel in the mangled mess.

The emotion was transparent even before he found his voice. There was only venom and hatred where once dwelled a soft concern, and a lilting laugh; a cache of humour and easy sympathy; gentle relief.

_It’s all your fault._

A wrecked voice.

_I wish I had never met you._

A shattered spirit.

_I wish you had never been born._

A ruined bond.

Those moments Keith wished the same.

 

* * *

_At this rate it’ll kill you before you yield._

* * *

 

Hunk.

A kind gentle face, distorted in fear, awash in emotion.

Terrified, as he was restrained.

Pleading for Keith to help, but he only ever turned away.           

Screaming, as he was whipped, and he bled and bled and bled. Shouting as he was burnt; silenced forcefully when the noise became too much.

Begging and begging Keith to help, with his eyes when there were no words, to tell Lotor what he wanted; Keith never did, and Hunk died screaming, in pain.

And Keith resumed falling, and falling and falling.

 

* * *

_Why won’t you_ yield _?_

* * *

_Pidge_. His voice earsplitting in desperation.

A hand just missed as they fell over the edge of the cliff, inches from escape, hurtling down to their irrefutable demise on sharp rocks and sea.

 _Pidge_.

An unseen shot to their heart, from a concealed blaster as Keith tried to defend their back against an ambush of soldiers.

 _Pidge_.

An electric shockwave as they defused the electric current caging Keith in, and it tore through them, decimating them.

 _Pidge_.

Cornered and helpless; at the mercy of the cruelties of Lotor’s soldiers- the ones he had threatened; Keith forced to watch, unable to move.

 _PIDGE_.

As desperate was his own need only ever to protect her, he never could.

He was always just off.

Hundreds of different scenarios- that progressively made less sense- but ones he couldn’t separate, couldn’t parse.

There was always something tainted, a sense that said Pidge wouldn’t be so helpless, wouldn’t be so stupid, wouldn’t lack the creative ingenuity to shatter whatever earthly bonds held them down…

It was all blurred over by a haze of pain and regret, guilt and death.

He wasn’t sure of much but it hurt all the same

All Keith knew was that he was always _too late, too late_ , and every time he saw the amber spark of their eyes dull, he felt himself splinter a little more, falling a little further.

A little more irretrievable.

 

* * *

_I_ never _wanted this._

_I know, I know._

_I never wanted_ this _._

* * *

It was Allura and her vitriolic words that sliced the deepest; echoed the loudest.

_Bastard._

Tore at the fraying seams until there was nothing to hold him together.

At times it was Allura, watching as her paladins were beaten and broken and broken, at Keith’s behest or while he watched, and helplessly did nothing.

 _Monster_. _Monster. She screamed, she screamed._

It resounded without end.

He was both falling, and falling _apart_. Endlessly, irreversibly.

Others, it was Keith tearing into her, breaking the body he had been sworn to protect, to follow. Bones and blood and battering.

Traitor _. Traitor. Traitor._

_He laughed and she screamed, and he sobbed and held her, and she wept and struggled to get away._

Maybe it was both of them.

Maybe it was just him.

_Galra. Galra. Galra. Galra._

Perhaps it was kinder than leaving her to Lotor but seeing her scream, cry, curse, and iterate that he was a fiend, was not kind to him.

Keith realized he believed her, as he fell, and fell, and _fell_.

 

* * *

_You need to stop before there is no return._

* * *

 

_Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop._

_STOP._

A roar of sound, the desperate angry voice of rushing air and sensation.

An ache in his heart, intensifying as Keith screamed; it was hoarse and grating, until there was no longer any sound.

His voice gave out at the instant the pains started to diminish from his chest, searing at his wrists, his arms.

Then it was blissfully dark, and cold, and Keith was no longer falling; he was drifting in freezing, unsympathetically hollow space.

There was no afterglow of stars or nebulae, there was no warmth of sun or family.

It was an idyllic solitude where Keith couldn’t hurt anyone, anymore.

He was alone, obscured in shadow.

Everything was distant, but the dark wasn’t familiar and he was alone.

He didn’t have to see or hear, or remember.

His mouth pulled minutely upwards, and the sensation was bitter but familiar.

Alone. _Alone._

                                                                          

* * *

_How is this any better?_

It is. It is. It is.

_How am I any better?_

* * *

 


	9. You Said That We'd Be Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War for all that it was terrible, only seemed to make life that much more valuable; made for the most odd bed fellows. Lance was glad for it because it gave him hope; the silver lining that there was good to be found in even the vilest of places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shout out to you lovely people reading, commenting, bookmarking, shouting in my tumblr inbox, and leaving kudos; i never expected this story to come this far, with this many readers (7000+ hits, welp) or reach this word count. A mere impulsive decision to see my ideas of war and pain through, i honestly didn't believe i'd be endlessly motivated to see this through the way i am. So thankyou, all of you; you push me to be a better, less prone to disappearing writer, and i can't thank you enough for being so supportive.
> 
> This chapter was a bit of a struggle to push out amidst everything going on IRL; (spoiler: its a LOT), and the message i was trying to convey. Some of it might be confusing, or jarring and i apologize for it, but i'd love to hear what you made of it because i'm always striving to ensure that what i'm saying, or what i know is happening is also being transmitted to everyone on the other side.
> 
> Fair warning: this is where the real plotline (HOPEFULLY) comes into play.
> 
> Also, you may have noticed the updated total chapters, (18!!! so many words and still only halfway through; less if you consider how much plotground i've actually covered :c ) and that's a bit of an intimidating doozy, and while i have most of the plot outlined, and i know where I'm taking this and what all i have to write and embellish; it is a LOT, and i'm totally terrified of not being able to introduce it effectively (ALSO scared and excited about s4 and how it'll throw a wrench in my plans because s3 did alter some things/ mostly characters going to make their appearances in the upcoming chapters which might once have been OC's ;) )
> 
> anyway, i'm gonna cut my rambling short, and let you read this chapter. Please drop a line and tell me what you thought.

* * *

 

It was the first time in weeks that Keith woke not to the rapidly cooling sweat of nightmare, but the cacophony of proximity alarms.

He jerked upright more out of muscle memory than any residual panic, and the last vestiges of sleep left him when he blearily groped under his pillow for the comforting presence of the Marmoran blade and found nothing.

 _Right_.

Keith only allowed himself a single moment to feel the resurgence of bitter anger, the slight plummet of despair, before shoving it deep down in the recesses of his heart.

_Put one foot in front of the other, and keep going._

He hadn’t needed the reminder quite so often since Shiro had returned from the dead.

 _Keep going;_ a breath, a quick swallow.

_You stop moving and everything you’re running from kills you._

Keith refused to go without a struggle; above everything, Keith was and always had been a survivor, and he’d be damned if that got taken away from him too.

His feet traced the familiar route to the deck with little prompting from his mind, and he felt that small irksome voice in the back of his head wonder if this was real, or a particularly ambitious dream.

_Shut up._

_Talking to yourself is never a good sign._

Keith ignored the snide voice in the back of his head, as he approached the archway near silently.

_Are you welcome here, child of Gal?_

He lingered in the doorway, watching the Princess talk to Shiro softly; her hand on his shoulder, Shiro’s head lowered. The mice scampered between them, using Allura’s arm as a bridge.

It was something so commonplace but Keith felt a small pang of wistfulness; he hadn’t realized how much he had missed the little moments of normalcy interspersing the war they waged.

Shiro smiled, and it was tiny but devastatingly gentle, even from what little of it Keith could see.

_Why intrude on them? They don’t need you here._

A small breath quietly sucked in, however- as he prepared to take his leave, caught the Princess’s attention. “Keith!” Allura turned to him, delight brightening her beautiful face.

Despite himself, Keith jerked a step backwards, wincing when Allura’s face fell.

Shiro just smiled bracingly, the small intimate thing of a few seconds ago growing easily to include Keith as well; an invitation without the use of words.

“I- uh- heard the alarms.” Keith said, softly, taking the olive branch extended.

“Ah, yes. Sorry it roused you.” Coran piped up, and Keith jumped, caught unaware. He hadn’t noticed the advisor’s vibrant presence just to the side of his sightline. “Don’t worry Number Four, it’s only a friendly.”

Keith clenched his hands tightly- an attempt to suppress the tremor that wracked them; tried to ignore his skittish animal brain screaming at him for overlooking a threat.

 _How could you not_ notice _?!_

_It’s Coran._

_Is it?_

“Keith?” Shiro asked, gentle voice shaking him out of his paranoia.

The Red Paladin nodded, smiled weakly- possibly, a little unconvincingly- and took the last few steps into the deck. He kept his eyes on the floor, unable to raise them quite yet, and counted backwards slowly.

_Three;_

 “It’s the Blade.” Allura clarified, valiantly managing not to duck in an effort to meet Keith’s eyes.

_Two;_

“They’re reporting intel on the Empire’s movements.” Allura continued, never one to back down. Her voice was firm- not pushing at Keith’s obvious uncertainty, but not yielding to it either. “We’re trying to find a way to disable their…” she trailed off as Shiro, in periphery, stiffened a little. “strong-arms.”

_One;_

She was determined as always; this time to fill him in, no matter who tried to stop her, be it himself. Keith felt something frantic in his heart quieten suddenly, footing on familiar ground settling him, and the recognition of Allura’s steel core helped the shaking in his hands subside.

_It’s Allura. It’s okay._

_Is it?_

This time, he ignored the malign voice as he lifted his head, and looked Allura straight in her piercing blue eyes; the sharp desperation in them softening near instantly, and Keith felt his small smile turn a little more genuine.

Okay.

“When do we meet?”

* * *

 

Kollivan had always been a bit rougher around the edges than the Paladins were used to, but his reaction on seeing Keith was… unprecedented.

He had, after his initial conservatism- according to Shiro- in giving Keith any information about his blade, warmed up considerably. He had almost seemed _fond…_

 _Well_ , Allura amended, as much as the stern Galran seemed able.

This time though, his concentrated glower was ample in its mistrust, and strange enough that even Allura recoiled; she wasn’t proud of it, but her hand darted first towards the nearest bayard, in case it was needed.

Old habits, and old prejudices were hard to kill completely.

“Where did you find him?” Kollivan demanded, and Allura found herself bristling by instinct, even as she put away the bayard, even as Shiro put a bracing hand on her arm.

“Galran prison barge.” She said, defiantly divulging the bare minimum out of sheer obstinate objection.

Lance walked into the meeting room, and stilled as if sensing the foreign undercurrent of tension. Despite his numerous, vocalized positive reinforcements regarding the Blade, he stepped forward to her side, near-instantly defensive, and she had never appreciated his ability to read a room more.

“How do you know it is really him?” Antok growled, stepping forward into Keith’s personal bubble, almost directly offensive in his face; eyeing all the ways Keith was different, and the Red Paladin almost seemed to shrink under his scrutiny, mouth twisting into that small almost-downcast frown. Keith’s body language turned suspicious and caged, the flight or fight response kicking in, and while he did not retreat- his arms clenched stiffly at his sides- he remained mute in the face of Antok’s aggression.

“They would not have merely let him live… or escape.” Kollivan added, almost regretfully as he took in Keith’s uncharacteristically silent response, where once he would have forced Antok to back down. “The Empire could easily have… _replaced_ him.”

Pidge snarled ferociously, angry beyond words but their priority seemed to be only Keith as they stomped forward, and stood seditiously at his side. Their answering glare at Antok could have melted metal clear off the walls.

Keith said nothing, just kept his gaze firmly to the side, ignoring Antok like he was a structural fixture as opposed to a massive, enraged, and mistrustful Galran soldier.

“If you had seen him, _found him_ , you wouldn’t have doubted-” Lance started furiously, cutting himself off forcibly only when Shiro, ever calm and competent, put a warning hand on his shoulder.

Shiro simultaneously squeezed Allura’s arm- wordlessly cautionary- as if recognizing that she was about to lay into Kollivan herself.

She took in a violent heaving breath, in respect of his warning, attempting to swallow her piqued temper.

She was a diplomat, _the_ regent; she could not _react_ this way, this openly; no matter how much their accusations incensed her.

Lance glared at Kolivan regardless, almost disappointed in his anger, but even he couldn’t help the glance he sent Keith over his shoulder.

Whether it was wary or apologetic, Allura couldn’t tell.

Shiro, clearly holding himself back with the herculean effort so characteristic of him, did not speak directly against his allies or outwardly react except the tightening of his mouth.

He did however speak in a tone, extraordinarily cold, and bearing no room for argument. “We will _not_ speak of this baseless accusation again, Kollivan.”

His iron-clad control on his emotions would never cease to amaze Allura, and she made a mental note to herself, to emulate Shiro’s calm more often than her own rather impulsive sarcastic temper.

“What have you found, Kollivan.” Allura demanded his report firmly, using Shiro’s authority as a command to lay this matter to rest, as she straightened back into her role as the Princess of the Paladins.

Her anger would have to wait.

* * *

 

The meeting was relatively dull, after that first… altercation; and Lance found himself drifting in and out of attentiveness; the Blade of Marmora visits had become a fairly common occurrence in the months without Keith- Allura debriefing Kollivan with a familiar mixture of grudging respect, somewhat wary attitude allayed by genuine relief at his continued survival.

War for all that it was terrible, only seemed to make life that much more valuable; made for the most odd bed fellows. Lance was glad for it because it gave him hope; the silver lining that there was good to be found in even the vilest of places.

If Lance couldn’t hold on to hope, he feared that he wouldn’t have the strength to bear the shitty things that even as Defenders of the Universe, they _had_ to do because no one else would.

It was hard to be maudlin though for while hope was something he struggled with- his retention of it was fairly successful- but the contentment in Lance’s chest was far rarer, for it was the first time in a while their entire team was there; the first time it had all started feeling relatively normal.

The first time in months that he found faith easily, that they could and would make it through this.

 _Home_.

Lance looked at Keith’s wan but determined face, and felt a tug of hope mixed with an ache of nostalgia for what had been. He refused to dwell on it, though.

Keith deserved more than his half-assed wishes for everything to go back to its earlier ease. The Red Paladin was trying, and so were the rest of them; and they would see him through, no matter who Keith chose to become.

For now though, Lance was relaxed enough to kick back, enough levity in his heart to leave the finagling and plotting in Allura’s beautifully capable hands.

He was satisfied enough to just watch his found family together.

Keith was sitting, arms crossed half-defensively low on his chest. He wasn’t quite slouching, but there was a certain mutiny to the slope of his back.

Lance suppressed a small smile at the irony; even after such adversity, the human spirit retained its elasticity; no matter how it was twisted and stretched thin, some kernel at its core remained the same.

Or maybe it was just stubbornness.

Maybe it was just Keith.

And no matter how he tried to push the thought away, it lingered; that Lance didn’t know if he would have been able to endure the same.

Lance shifted his eyes to Shiro, lest Keith turn and see the potent mix of melancholy and pity in them, and his grin widened in all sincerity.

Shiro was doing his mother hen routine; hovering close enough that he could reach Keith instantly if there was something amiss, or Antok had any more bright ideas. (He couldn’t help the dirty look he sent the masked Galran regardless of what side he was on, and whether or not he was even looking _at_ Lance.) Yet, Shiro still made sure to sit far enough that Keith didn't feel crowded.

It was adorable, and where Lance once might have found it in himself to be jealous- he just found that he had missed the way Shiro was always so worried about Keith; a mommy duck to its particularly rebellious ( _reckless)_ offspring.

(Not that Shiro was remotely old enough to be a mom (dad?); just that the way he cared was unconditional.)

Keith looked tired enough that Lance knew that he hadn’t really been sleeping- and hadn’t slipped back into his routine of ingesting copious amounts of the noxious space coffee. Shiro shifted infinitesimally closer, lowering his shoulder in silent, subtle offering as Keith progressively began to slip in his seat; without prompting, Keith leaned into his side with an ease belying everything that had happened.

It relieved an ache in Lance’s heart he hadn’t quite acknowledged as ever-present; the strange jilted-ness between Keith and Shiro had been unsettling; like leaning back on a wall in your childhood home, only to find it gone.

Pidge and Hunk observed with him- just as silently- from their own perches on the back of the sofa, and the floor; faces splitting under growing smiles of satisfaction as Keith drifted off and Shiro slipped an arm around him to better accommodate him; maybe even to assure himself Keith was still there; a solid line along his side.

God knows, the occasions Lance had spent lingering in the balconies of the training room to make sure their dumbass _trains-himself-to-the-bone_ Red Paladin hadn’t vanished into thin air.

And as Keith slept looking far more peaceful- an almost innocent expression on his face- Lance didn’t think he imagined the way Allura paused in the midst of a heated argument with Kollivan over (yet another) gameplan, and the incongruously soft smile that lit up her face momentarily.  


* * *

 

  
Keith didn’t remember falling asleep.

For an instant, Keith didn’t quite know where he was, so he kept himself very still without opening his eyes.

He breathed in carefully slow; inhaling the scent of mossy oak, laced with hints of smoke and vanilla.

An odd mix of scents, yet as familiar to Keith as home was to most.

 _Takashi_.

For Shiro’s sake, Keith shifted a little restlessly as if just stirring in sleep, but he couldn’t quite control the way his eyes snapped open- an involuntary response to his panicked mind slamming them with the command to confirm what his sense of smell indicated.

If it was anyone else, he would have darted up.

Keith might have done so regardless, if Shiro hadn’t had an arm around him.

_It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real._

But the voice sounded a little meek, even in the confines of Keith’s mind; as if it knew that it had little hold over how Keith was hardwired to trust Shiro.

 _How you betrayed that trust is on you, paladin_.

Keith winced a little at the cheap shot, but diverted by glancing away; forcing his focus on Shiro’s hand around his shoulder; the knots and bones of technology infused with that something extra that made it more than just a prosthetic, more than a weapon.

Keith knew that Shiro hated that hand; what it reminded him of- what was done to him and the war they now fought- but Keith had always admired it. It didn’t make Shiro any lesser; instead, the strength with which he carried himself and the marker- of his pain and changed-ness- with the purpose of undoing everything it stood for…

Oddly enough it reminded him of the little bit more that ran through Shiro’s veins; that made him who he was; the best of what Keith had ever recognized in humanity.

It made him unreal, and yet it also made him realer than ever.

So Keith let his eyes run over the familiar tangle of metal and magic, both of the arm and of the man, and let the repetition call him back into calm.

Into comfort.

* * *

 

Shiro had been in the now-dark meeting room a while, eyes trained on the cosmos outside the window when Keith stirred, restless in sleep, before his eyes shot open; body tensing in an urge to flee. His gaze darted to Shiro’s prosthetic arm on his shoulder, and after a few tense seconds where Shiro held himself very still, Keith consciously leaned back into Shiro’s side, settling his head back on his shoulder.

The draining tension in the body pressed up against him, unclenched something within Shiro’s heart. It felt like breathing clear air after miles of smog.

 “Sleep okay?” Shiro asked, in lieu of asking if Keith himself was okay; in lieu of pulling away and returning the stolen warmth in his heart.

Keith nodded, without bothering to lift his head, his sharp nose brushing a line along his arm with the movement.

_You don’t deserve this, Champion._

The contentment unfurling in Shiro’s chest was enough to push away the bitter echo of resentment.

Enough, as he stayed there willingly in companionable silence; until Keith spoke, several minutes later, apropos of nothing, "There was a child held in captivity..."

_Where I was._

It went unsaid, but the bitterness returns to Shiro, momentary serenity seizing.

_Where you landed him._

Shiro looked down at Keith’s face, as he tipped his head marginally backwards; the slightly suspicious concern growing in his vibrant eyes, convincing Shiro to put his game face on; to keep himself from tensing, and to ensure that his only reaction is a lazy squeeze of Keith’s shoulder in silent encouragement.

“I… don’t remember much of it.” Keith said slowly, a light diffidence to his words that tells Shiro he’s not being entirely truthful. “But that kid is oddly clear whenever I think about it.”

Shiro didn’t quite trust himself to speak, as the lump in his throat grew in recollection of the horrors of Galran prison.

A child…

“He was…a gentle boy; a little shy, but bright. Endlessly hopeful.” Keith smiled, small but soft. “oddly cute and oddly tiny.”

Keith looked away, out at the galaxy painted in endless hues of purple beyond the castle window, and his eyes grew a little unfocused.

Shiro waited patiently, assuring his growing worry that the fact Keith was still at his side was a good sign.

“The kid… liked talking.” Keith said, at the beginning of a small laugh. “Liked playing games… near forced me into half of them.”

His eyes crinkled a little, but his mouth flattened and Shiro found himself holding his breath in- was it apprehension? Fear that Keith would stop talking? Fear that he wouldn’t?

 _He needs to talk._ Shiro tried to remind himself, over the self-doubt and malicious voices in his head.

_Ah, but you’re afraid of hearing something you won’t like…Endlessly frightened, aren’t you?_

“He was just lonely, I think.” Keith’s eyes drop to his bare hands, as he softly adds, “there was something… _familiar_ about him.”

Shiro swallowed, managing a lone sentence. “Like you knew him?”

_Such a brave, inspirational leader._

Keith’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t look at Shiro as he speaks. “Like I understood him.”

Shiro fell silent, hedging his bets on what he could say without making Keith stop altogether.

 _“_ I remember weirdly specific things; His favourite alien equivalent of an Earth pet was a breed halfway between a cat and a snake; his best friend was an eight year old girl, a daughter of two… generals in the army; her fathers’ adored him, his… parents did not.”

“Him, or the girl?” Shiro was asking before he could stop the urge.

Keith’s mouth curled in a weak approximation of a smile but he didn’t elaborate.

A beat of silence fell, in which Shiro found himself watching the fidgeting of Keith’s hands in his lap; the tangled twist of pale ungloved fingers; the sharp profile in the silver light, long lashes brushing his cheeks as he clenched his eyes shut, and exhaled.

“I always thought he might have been a little in love with the girl.” Keith speaks after another moment. “I wasn’t the best judge, all things considered; but it _felt_ like it.”

Keith goes quiet again, a small tremor in his hands that he stills by laying them flat on his knees; leans forward and away from Shiro.

 _What_ are _you waiting on?_ Shiro demanded of himself as his voice refused to come, to prompt Keith to continue.

_Why not wait until he stops talking?_

The intrusive selfish thought spurs him onward, “Keith,” Shiro said, and it resounded eerily loud in the suddenly brittle silence. “What happened?”

“ _Eight years_.” Keith near whispered, almost flinched, but continued regardless. “Growing tensions where the kid was from; vicious territorial disputes.” Keith sighed, and his eyes glazed over, and he abruptly seemed very far away from Shiro despite the minimal physical distance.

Shiro felt unease flicker in him. “Keith?” and he couldn’t tell if the tone in his own voice was warning, or anxiety. “I don’t understand.”

“There was a celestial event… an escalating struggle coming to an end?” Keith almost wondered, as if he hadn’t heard Shiro speak, and his voice wavered a little. “The army intervened for the sake of the peace, and the opposing nobility… retaliated.”

Shiro leaned forward, and tried to take Keith’s elbow, to pull him out of whatever memory he was in.

Keith merely moved his arm away, a hand raking through his cropped hair, dropping back into his lap as if not expecting the sudden end several inches before its usual length; it fell like gravity pulled it, an unstopped crash.

“The boy, now sixteen, just wanted peace; had seen enough abuse of power and life. He fed information to the… generals, things that would crucify the purist movement where it stood. He gambled his own safety and his rights to do so.” Keith was rambling now, eyes fixed on white-knuckled hands. His breaths came in fast, hard, but he didn’t stop talking, didn’t allow Shiro to touch him; easily avoiding outstretched hands by standing up.

 “Keith, _please_.” Shiro’s alarm was growing, at the discrepancies of Keith’s narrative, unsure of the details that didn’t add up- the time frame that didn’t match, the odd way Keith was talking… as if...

 _No_. Shiro cut himself off.

The pale-faced paladin ignored him.

 _Such influence._ _Such control._

“It didn’t… they- I watched as they took Siâne. He couldn’t- I- there was nothing to do, but it…” Keith gasped in air, as if he had forgotten to breathe, panic lacing his face. “They chained his hands in these- these _barbed_ nets of magic, and it was clear… it was just a message.”

Shiro followed Keith to where he was pacing, and tried once again to reach out, to touch, to brace him; he shouldered past him almost absently.

_He doesn’t see you._

“They slit her throat… and they let her bleed to death where the populace could see, I- the generals could see, the boy _could see._ ”

 _No-one sees_ you _..._

“And- and it was _just a message. They killed her and it was-”_ Keith broke off mid-sentence, laughing, twisting his hands into his hair and tugging. It was hysterical and more than a little desperate, when he finally spoke again, sounding nothing like himself. “ _No one did anything._ ”

Shiro felt his eyes burn, his head throb, old wounds _ache_ as he remembered all too well; suddenly catapulted into the brutality of the arena he had been forced to fight for his survival in; the warm spurt of blood in the air, the sharp metallic tang; the way it seeped, pooled… the way it _drip, drip, dripped._

_Remember how you savoured it?_

“But he- I… _He_ nearly tore through his hands in trying to get to her.” Keith pulled his hair viciously as if emphasizing that action, and Shiro shuddered as he forcibly gathered himself back from the pieces of recollection that haunted him.

For Keith, _for Keith,_ he reminded himself.

_Yes, lie to yourself, Cham-pi-on._

“Keith.” Shiro said, through shaking voice and fingers, but drawing Keith’s hands away from his hair firmly.

Keith’s gaze caught on their intertwined hands, and Shiro quietly inhaled, a silent plea for this to be enough, but then:

“Where are the scars? The scars- I feel them, I remember them but they’re not _here_.”

_Did you really think this story has a happy ending?_

An amused bitter laugh.

 _“_ Keith?” Shiro said, helplessly, feeling his heart constrict painfully.

“Siâne.” And Keith choked on the name, emotion overcoming him, as he finally let Shiro hold on to him. “Siâne.” He sobbed, as Shiro hugged him, running a trembling hand down his back.

_Have you not been paying attention, Shiro-gane._

 “Siâne.” He whispered, and that name lowly spoke, held the weight of a million goodbyes.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback would be loved, because i tried to keep the messages relatively subtle and i'm endlessly paranoid of it being too subliminal to pick up on.
> 
> You guys are loved x


	10. Kill Me: Lie To My Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, he breathed in deep, tilted his head back even as he clenched his hands to stop the relentless shaking, and let his eyes slide shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAAAAAH I HATE LIFE AND MYSELF SO MUCH. I SWORE TO MYSELF I'D WATCH S4 RIGHT ON TIME (AFTER I FINISHED THIS CHAPTER) BUT I OBVIOUSLY DIDN'T MANAGE IT; SO I DENIED MYSELF THE PLEASURE OF WATCHING BEFORE AND IT KILLED ME!!!
> 
> (i totally broke my own promise and watched it before touching up and finishing this, but lucky me, it was so plot driven that it changes nothing for this story; Its not going to be s4 compliant, and if anything does end up aligning to canon, its merely a beautiful coincidence.
> 
> on another note, how about aaaaaaaaaaall that angst, eh? Probably unpopular opinion, but i loved the season? My son was so beautiful and sad *heart breaks* Also all that crack lmfao)
> 
> This chapter, was a very very hard one to get out because everything had to be just so, and i couldn't figure out how to handle it. I literally wrote in fits and starts, so i just want you all to take it from me and be kind. hopefully the next one wont punch me in the gut quite as often; LET ME KNOW HOW YOU REALLY FEEL. (PLS) IT KEEPS ME ALIVE! (sorry for the screaming but y'know how it is kbyethxlovey'all)

* * *

 

When Keith came back to, passing through a blanket of darkness to a sudden surge of sensation, he was overwhelmed.

The heat in the room was sweltering; the light blinding. The sensation of air on his skin felt like claws of ice; thoroughly unpleasant. The softness under his skin felt unstable- the way it adhered itself to his skin, suffocating.

Keith all but threw himself off the surface of the bed, and the impact of the floor was brutal but at least it was firm- even if it made every bone in his body ache and twinge in complaint. He tried to curl tighter in on himself, but was unable to find the strength to do more than clench his eyes shut against the onslaught of light.

He heard the slightest sound of shifting, a stamp of feet; a murmur of exchanged conversation, but his throbbing head was too jumbled to make sense of it.

The footsteps stopped very near him, then a softly uttered " _Keith_?"

He didn’t, couldn’t acknowledge the question even if he had wanted to. He couldn’t quite find his tongue under the sudden vacancy of his mind and body.

His heart constricted with the urge to ask about his team. Shiro? Lance? Pidge?

Hunk...

No.

A shiver ran down his spine and the sensation of it lingered.

There was a slight tremor in the hand that turned his chin, five points of searing heat on his face. Keith would have yanked himself away, but it was oddly hard to discover the will to move any of his muscles.

The footsteps were urgent, almost alarmed as they hurried away; Keith was too far gone to care.

Shiro? Lance? Pidge?

It was a soft encroaching gloom, ensconcing him in gentle tendrils, drawing him closer and downwards- muggy, and almost warm. It wrapped him in its sluggish embrace and Keith allowed the fog to float him away.

* * *

 

This time when Keith emerged, it was a strain to even open his eyes a sliver. He managed only a painful squint, as his alarm escalated.

The light surrounding him was softer this time, more golden than white. Keith still had to force his eyes to cooperate enough to spot the person crouching by him.

His panicking lizard brain demanded that he stand and fight, take her- for the silhouette was distinctly female- down with a well-timed jab, to run, to _escape._

But his heart was caught on his personal prayer.

_Pidge. Lance. Shiro._

Maybe, _maybe_ she knew… could help?

He groaned, low in his throat, as he tried to set himself solidly enough to rise.

Keith wasn’t sure how he managed to keep his sight fixed on the unknown figure through the dizzying rush, the blooming pain in his ribs, the splitting sirens in his head.

Her eyes caught his and the relief in them was out of place- the too sharp grin oddly tinted in emotion.

She was oddly humanoid for a Galra- if she even was of Gal.  Her eyes were dark enough to be sapphire, her skin pale enough to be slightly sickly skin. Her short chopped hair was a deep enough indigo to shine black in the ambient glow.

"Paladin." Her voice too was pleasant, not laced in threat or overt sentiment but pleased nevertheless.

Keith frowned a little, but couldn’t do more as his eyes started to slide back shut, arms buckling under his unsteady weight. She grabbed at his wrist almost frantically, and her hand was ice cold.

Keith hissed through his teeth, even if he wasn't quite able to tug his hand out of her grasp.

She shifted her fingers and he realized belatedly she was positioning them; taking his pulse.

"Your heart rate is too low. Can you move?"

The words drifted, almost distantly resounding in his periphery, before registering as a question; to him.

Keith forced his eyes open again, using the icy grip on his wrist as an anchor as he dragged himself to the forefront of his consciousness.

She must have realized that struggle in itself was an answer, because her eyebrows furrowed a little, "You’re burning up. You need to stay awake."

Logically speaking, Keith _could_ see the sense of her words, but a mutinous part of him- which didn’t quite want to take any commands- agreed with his dwindling sense of presence; maybe fading for a nap _would_ be nicer.

He closed his eyes, having accepted the inevitability of the mist, when a sharply solid sting across his face jolted him forcefully back into awareness.

She had _slapped_ him. Keith jerked forward, letting out a snarl that came out more halfheartedly than felt or intended.

His face prickled as she laughed, teeth glinting and eyes unfairly relieved, but still shining in amusement "I see the fascination now."

 _How nonsensical_. He thought, and any other time would have been ashamed of how weakly it echoed in his mind.  
  
“Can you speak?” She asked, almost gently.  
  
Keith shook his head slowly, eyeing her warily.  
  
“Right.” She looked over her shoulder circumspectly, as she leaned back in to place a hand on his forehead.

 _Why was she helping him_?

Keith pulled back a little.

Well; as much as he could manage without screaming outright in pain.

 _Why,_ he mouthed, which took more energy out of him than he cared to admit he had.

“Why am I helping you?” She asked, seeming surprised.

He nodded slightly, the movement generating a lancing pain behind his eyes.

She smiled and it was startlingly a little shyer and kinder than before. “I do not want to owe anyone.” she replied.

Keith felt his brows furrow, because the sounds didn’t quite add up to words in his head.

She gestured to the gun strapped at her side, seeming to recognize his discomfiture. Keith allowed his gaze to follow her hand; the weapon _was_ oddly familiar. A series of images flickered of the gun pointed in his face; the Galran from the weblum who he, and _Hunk_ , had fought side by side with.

 _Hunk_.

She must have seen the flicker of recognition, as he vaguely mouthed the word _weblum,_ because she nodded before asking, "Will you trust me once more?"

_Lance, Pidge, Shiro._

Keith didn’t see that he had a choice, so he tilted his chin at her in agreeance, and allowed her to lift him up to his feet. She staggered as his knees gave way with the debilitating rush of pain, and he crumpled into her side and support.

 _“Shit.”_ she breathed, and he unwittingly laughed, sharp and hoarse.

 _Shit_ , he thought, before the rush of pain pulled him back under.

* * *

 

The third time too many that Keith pulled himself out of unconsciousness, it was slow work.

It took several hair raising moments before his vision swam back into focus; before his breathing evened out, and the deafening rush in his ears subsided.

Keith was in a strange room, not the cell chamber he had become accustomed to; on a bed, not the floor. His vision, however, pulsed with his aching head, so he couldn’t quite survey his environment properly.

On the plus side, he woke to idyllic solitude, which despite the relentless damper on his strength and ability to think, relieved him.

So, he closed his eyes, and focused on himself.

_Focus yields focus._

His head spun, and his hands still shook in whatever remnant fear wracked through his body- the occasional spasm of debilitating pain coursing through his veins.

He felt pathetic.

 _Breathe_.

Keith’s frustration began to mount, with every failed attempt to move, to speak; but he tamped down on it hard- at least he felt marginally more real.

 _Don’t be a slave to your impatience, Keith;_ a phrase laughingly spoken, sincerely emphasized by gentle, candid smiles.

_Patience yields focus._

Yes, he was sapped of his strength, but at least he felt more human; at least his head, his thoughts were beginning to clear.

 _Temperance_.

At least he could retain the thought that whatever blender his insides had been put through, wasn’t necessarily tangible.

 _Think_.

For one, his team was more than whatever alter images his mind had been forced to see.

Pidge? More than some hapless girl child; their intellect alone was a lethal weapon, which was only augmented by their agile thought process and footwork.

_Pidge would not have been caught unless they had wanted to be._

Hunk? Too strong to be overpowered without a fight; he might be nervous by nature, and would always look to diplomacy before violence, but he was still a Paladin and a formidable opponent in his own right.

_Hunk would not have been subdued that easily._

Lance? Far too _loyal_ to let physical pain turn him on his own. Yes, it had been harrowing and every time Keith thought of it, there was a lingering sense of guilt and doubt- because what if Keith was getting ahead of himself again? What if Lance was hurting, and rightfully blamed Keith for it?

 _But_ , that insistent voice remained; it would take far more than hurting Lance to turn the sincerest person Keith had known, against the other paladins. Lance was too selfless to let his own pain influence his regard for his friends. He was too prone to suppressing himself, hiding away under masks and bravado, to support them.

He wouldn’t give up on Keith, no matter how horrid a friend he was, and had been.

_Lance would not give up on him._

Shiro? No matter how far he fell, Shiro wouldn’t give in to the darkness that whispered at his core. No matter how far Keith fell, Shiro would not stop fighting to keep Keith from hurting him, if for no other reason than that hurting Shiro would destroy Keith.

Takashi _knew_ Keith, and at the end of the day, respected him enough to know his boundaries, and what he would not compromise on; Shiro’s safety was always a hard limit.

Shiro would never stop fighting, if for nothing but to prevent Keith from losing anything else. If for nothing, but the chance to do some good in someone’s life somewhere.

_Shiro would not stop fighting._

Allura? Allura was- she was more than her hatred for the Galra; she was the personification of strength and brilliance, and never ending ideals and hope; she wouldn’t fall to blind bitterness, not when she had striven to overcome it.

Keith knew Allura, and she was too altruistic to let her emotions bring her to animosity; not at the cost of the universe.

_Allura would not bend, she would not fall; she wouldn’t look away._

So, _no_. Despite the shadows of doubt that haunted him, despite the guilt, the anger, the _fear_ ; Keith didn’t quite buy that it had happened.

Collectively, they weren’t stupid enough to bust in without a strategy in place. They weren’t reckless enough to get themselves caught like that. They weren’t weak enough to fall to some half-baked princeling, no matter how unsettlingly intelligent he appeared to be.

Not to mention, they wouldn’t risk Voltron quite that easily.

Not for _him_.

_No, not against the universe._

Keith did not believe it; he _didn’t_.

But just because it hadn’t happened, didn’t mean it would to be easy to forget; to ask it to not plague Keith.

_Rewind, replay, repeat._

_It didn’t happen,_ Keith insisted to himself, but his hands still refused to stop shaking.

His focus splintered, and the images came rushing back, and he felt a choking gasp escape himself.

Focus _, focus._

Categorize the physical pain: his heart still ached; eyes and throat still burning. He couldn’t find the drive to pick himself up, and keep going as he had so many times before.

Suddenly, the seclusion didn’t seem quite so comforting.

There was only silence, and Keith’s too-loud thoughts.

There were the drifting voices, and the occasional thump of straying footsteps, but he was never sure if they were verbalized or mere echoes in his head.

Keith forced himself up, beyond any ability on his part, and staggered; keeling over as his legs failed him. The pain speared him through upon impact, as if freshly received.

The paranoia rushing over him at having his back exposed, however overloaded the physical discomfort, and he found that he wasn’t too proud to crawl to the nearest wall.

It was sluggish progression, but he somehow managed to prop himself up against it, without much more sound than a groan, despite the throbbing in his chest and abdomen.

The wall slid open then, instead of the usual transparent panels, and Lotor stepped through.

Keith stilled his struggling instantly; frozen.

The Prince looked tired, mauve bruises below his fully gold eyes as they sought out Keith.

He opened his mouth, and then stopped, mouth thinning.

Keith didn’t take his eyes off him, did not blink.

Lotor seemed to nod, almost absently to himself, and he leaned back on the door that had slid shut behind him. “How do you feel, Paladin?”

Keith bared his teeth in reply, as viciously as he could manage.

Lotor’s eyes flickered, gold giving way to a flicker of white before recovering. “This would be so much easier, if you would just…” a sigh, as he tilted his head back, exposing his neck as it _thumped_ heavily against the door. “ _tell me_ what I want to know.”

Keith scoffed, and raised an eyebrow as contrarily arrogant as he knew how to make it, his jaw setting in a fusion of stubborn arrogance.

 _What are you going to do? Torture me? Kill me?_ He thought, fiercely. _I welcome you to try._

Lotor looked at him like he understood, shoulders jerking involuntarily as he looked down at gauntlet covered hands. His eyes flashed again, the gold shrinking to reveal entirely white sclera, until all that was left of the galran gold was his irises.

It was startling how much younger, more human that made him seem.

“I’ll leave you to rest.” The words were oddly soft, as if spoken on an exhale, an afterthought.

Keith kept his glare focused on the Prince, and said nothing.

Lotor’s unnaturally human eyes tightened a little, but he turned and left without further question.

Keith held his breath, remaining tense; expecting a return any instant; some sort of sign that his reprieve was a lie.

 _Nothing_.

Seconds, to minutes; only when what felt like an hour had passed, did Keith allow the tension to ebb.

The singular hour into hours; there were no more intrusions, nor mind games nor unpleasant visits.

He still didn’t permit himself the bed, opting to keep his back to the wall, but he could tolerate the idea of not having to think for a while.

It was unsettling to be allowed to fall asleep now; Keith kept hold of awareness with both hands, for as long as he was able; but he was still disquietingly tired, a bone deep weariness interrupted only by erratic tremors wracking him without warning.

So, he breathed in deep, tilted his head back even as he clenched his hands to stop the relentless shaking, and let his eyes slide shut.

* * *

 

Keith’s mind lurched to cognizance before his body did.

The room was no longer empty; Keith could tell because there was a decidedly not-quiet conversation being carried out in unhushed whispers near him.

He kept very still by reflex, and listened.

“ _Ezor_ ; you are _not_ supposed to be here.”

It was the Weblum Galra, sounding very put-upon, and like she knew she fought a losing battle, but not quite angry.

“Relax Acxa.” Sounds of what seemed to be a short-lived struggle, followed by a low cheerful whistle, rustling of cloth amidst footsteps that ended far too close to him for comfort. “So _this_ is the paladin.”

The owner of the second voice, supposedly _Ezor_ , leaned down low enough that the breath she exhaled, hit his face from the side; Keith stayed lax on force of will alone.

A beleaguered sigh, a slight hissing meow, as Acxa aggravated, reminded her, “Lotor will not be pleased.”

Ezor whistled a little mockingly, then laughed- the sound carefree and easy- but stayed put.

“As if that works on either of you.” A loud snort, and then the new voice, low and husky continued, “and we all know he doesn’t care as long as-”

“Zethrid” Ezor and Acxa said near simultaneously- tones remaining very even and quiet, for all that it was unmistakably a reprimand. The sentence Zethrid was saying got halted midway, and Keith discovered that he regretted the interruption.

Ezor leaned a little further, and something that felt a lot like hair brushes his forehead; he unintentionally flinched, but stayed otherwise stationary.

 “He looks so young.” Ezor’s words were soft, and he heard footsteps indicating the others coming closer.

Keith felt something a lot like panic begin to rummage in his ribcage.

He heard the movement, before he felt it; a hand rising to brush his face, and whether malicious or not, he reacted; his hand reaching up to grab it harshly before it can make contact.

Never mind that his grip felt disturbingly infirm.

Keith opened his eyes for the first time, meeting ice blue set in bright orange skin, and glared.

Ezor merely grinned- bright and startlingly white amidst all the colour in her face. “Hi cutie.”

Keith growled and shoved her hand away; skittering backwards, back hitting the wall behind him, as he frantically took in his surroundings with darting eyes.

There are four of them, one more than he had gauged- one who had not spoken, had given no indication of presence, a cowl shielding her face and cat perched on her shoulder, as she lingers out of reach.

Keith studied their garb, his mind catching on memory- deep onyx bodysuits with indigo accents- the moment he was taken; the seven advancing on him.

The way he was battered about, without managing to strike back in any manner of effectualness.

Keith found himself instantly on edge.

Lotor, Acxa, Ezor, Zethrid… The hooded, faceless one; they make up five of seven.

Five deadly fighters.

Who, and where were the other two?

 _Pidge? Lance? Shiro?_ He couldn’t help the unwelcome thought, the sudden doubt, and flinched.

Zethrid eyed him appraisingly, and muttered “He’s too small to put up any fight. I don’t see why we’re interested.”

Acxa shot her a look, but only approached Keith, hands held up, “We’re not going to harm you.”

 _What do you want?_ He narrowed his eyes- hating that he felt off-kilter and weak, unable to even voice himself- and waited, hands clenched at his side.

Acxa in her unusual way, still seemed to pick up on the mute question. She fidgeted, hand brushing back her cropped hair, hesitating.

It was Ezor who spoke, oddly solemn for the first time since he had seen the alien. “This…” she seemed to swallow, before continuing. “He- We need to know; are you-”

Keith only half listening, keeps looking from one general to the other, judging their stances, their momentum; evaluating the threat they pose to him right that instant.

So, he noticed, when the faceless one at the back tensed, and the cat hopped off her shoulder, darting out the open door.

Ezor quietened immediately as she and Acxa exchanged a glance, and Ezor grabbed Zethrid by her arm, cautionary as she made to step forward towards the door, instantly aggressive.

Acxa walked straight out, shoulders stiff and a slight gesture made behind her back, slides the door shut behind her.

Ezor darts a glance back at him, worry creasing her sunny face, but turns back to the hooded general. She holds out an arm, and Ezor clasps it, as Zethrid merely looks on- one large cat-like ear perked toward the door, massive arms folded across her broad chest.

“What business have you here, Emyr?” and Acxa now, was far more hostile, Keith picking up on her almost bristling even without visual confirmation.  Her voice is strained as it filters back through the closed door. “How dare you intrude-”

 “Ah, just wondering where the Prince has been disappearing off to.” A low voice cut her off dismissively, and the tension was almost palpable in the ensuing silence. “It makes sense, now. His _whore_ has finally spread her legs, hasn’t she?”

Acxa growled, and it was only Ezor’s immediate hand on Zethrid’s opening mouth that she prevented her following suit. “Who are you to question the Prince?” she snarls.

Keith listens, his instincts prickling suddenly for a reason he’s not entirely sure of.

“Emyr means no offense, half-breed; we aren’t _after_ your master, we don’t care who he breeds with. We just fail to understand why he would be interested in a mongrel species.” a sardonic mocking laugh cut the air like a whip. “Not when far more pure bred offspring can come out of the process if he merely looks elsewhere.”

 Ezor’s mouth tightened, almost flickering in plain sight, and Zethrid was shaking in effort to not barrel through to thrash the insolent party.

Keith feels an echo of their anger course through his veins.

_Half-breed._

“Get out.” Acxa’s voice turns flat, toneless. The sound of a blaster crackling to life filters through the closed door.

“Come now, Valeh. We wouldn’t want to damage the Prince’s concubine.” The first voice, _Emyr_ says seeming only dimly interested.  

“Ooh, _touchy_.” The second voice- _Valeh_ \- snickers disdainfully. “You never can tell when these bred bitches will become feral.”

The unpleasant laughter that ricochets back with receding footsteps seems to permeate the air, turning it stagnant and filthy.

When silence once again falls, Ezor lets go of Zethrid, and all three generals walk through the door without a second glance back at the Red Paladin.

The sliver of sight that Keith gets amidst their exit shows Acxa looking extraordinarily pale, and equally grim as her companions, the cat curled around her neck like a scarf.

Keith begins to wonder.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coincidentally, i've had most of these scenes written forever, so none of the new stuff has had any influence in it. Also, for all intents and purposes, despite all the debate on Narti post s4, she's fine here. 
> 
> Alternatively, come talk s4 with me on tumblr <3


	11. My Turn to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith’s existence was a nightmare within a nightmare, wrapped in the tendrils of a daydream. It rang with the intangibility of imagination.  
> He didn’t want to decide which one to reach for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... it's been a while hasn't it? 
> 
> I promise ye have not been abandoned. the last six something months have just been a lot (in a good but crazy way). I'm back though, in between my attempts to finish my original novel(s) so lets see if i can make finishing this fic happen in the month before season 6 drops.
> 
> Thankyou everyone who has read, reviewed, reblogged or inboxed me on tumblr. You all are so so appreciated, and every little word or comment has gone a long way in inspiring me to continue, and not leave (poor) Keith hanging in his misery. You guys (You know who you are) are the best!
> 
> Now, how about we find out where Keith has been at since last October, eh?

* * *

 

For all intents and purposes, Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe was ordinarily a cheerful man. He played the fool more often than needed, and not only did he _enjoy_ it but he was good at it. (After all, one doesn’t grow up with pompous surname(s) like _Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe_ without also growing a sense of humour to match.)

He also maintained that being set adrift in space, on course to the worst war the galaxy collective had seen, with a group of barely there young adults, necessitated it.

So _yes_ , he did feign forgetfulness, and embellished an already eccentric nature; he wheedled and whined, and overstated tall tales. All this, to prod his young wards into flights of fancy- unrelated to the warfare they engaged in- and subsequent fits of eye rolling. All for the chance to allow them to be young, and lighthearted.

For their sakes, he wasn’t even ashamed.

Coran _was_ ashamed, however, of how difficult he was finding it to close the distance between himself and their recently recovered Red Paladin.

He saw mirthful eyes of jade, shot through with aquamarine, overlaying the paladins’s shadowed ones; slate and sangria intertwined; He looked at Keith and saw auburn curls where dark strokes of ink whispered against skin.

He saw Keith’s once searing galactic eyes, and unconsciously compared; Would his Felton have coped better, had he not been murdered in cold blood?

He saw shorn hair, and splintered edges, and a stilted silence where there had once been deliberate quiet, and wondered; how would Felton’s kindness have fared in the face of terrors unspoken?

He saw Keith’s shaking hands, where once a very different kind of motion resided, and deliberated Felton’s gentility in scenarios necessitating survival and hard edges.

Mostly Coran saw the day his life had fallen apart, some ten millennia ago, playing over and over in punishing loops… knowing it incomparable, insurmountable, _impossible_ but still wishing his _son_ had been the one to make it back.

That impossible wish was what shamed him; built between the Paladin and the Warden, bulwarks and fortresses of guilt, desires, and regrets unvoiced.

Time, the indifferent mistress, passed, and the sharp soliloquy of silence stretched.

Coran; remorseful, and Keith- lingering in the shadows; muted, and that was something even the Royal Advisor couldn’t compensate for.

They both watched Voltron pass them by, in the hushed standstill of space.

* * *

 

Time, or the perception of it, had changed dramatically for Keith; where once existed sharp routines, cycles of team, training and trials, there was a haze of disorientation.

The team, the war, the fight continued… Keith himself, however was static.

Had it been days, weeks or months _since_?

He stared out the airlock, into the cold expanse of space, wherein not too long ago, the lions had taken flight.

 _(Red_ , a painful twinging in his heart, his soul yearning but unable to connect over distance unfathomable.)

He _didn’t_ know. He no longer had a schedule to keep, or goals to meet, except those of healing, and he didn’t _know_ whether it was indecision or indifference that plagued him more.

 _(“Keith_ ,” _they_ , the princess- she said, “ _Your wellbeing is paramount, but Voltron has been missing far too long._ ” She paused, wrung her hands, face sincere but eyes clouded. “ _We need to get back to taking distress calls._ ”)

 _There are distress calls beyond your pathetic cries for help,_ a snide remark.

(There was little to no mutiny, the paladins understood although to their credit, they looked torn, reluctant.

Keith did too, it still stung.)

_They don’t hear you…Are you not aware by now?_

Keith didn’t particularly care to know. He pushed the thought impatiently away.

The thing was, that even at his lowest, Keith had always had something to keep him going, a reason to keep moving, a star to chase, an aim to achieve…

Now? He was lost.

_No one to find, no one to find you._

His mind was distracted at best, addled at worst.

He cared too much; He cared too little.

He fought too hard; he fought not at all.

He either found emotion hard to come by, or it drowned him.

He was too silent, too shaken, too stiff, too strange; too… too _much_ in the shape of whatever he was to them; Acquaintance? Comrade? Friend?

 _Family_? A snicker in his head.

 _No_ , Keith thought shoving back at the intrusive thought- running a hand almost reverently along the transparent panel framing the stars and shifting cosmos just outside.

It was almost an ombré; a gradient pushing and pulling between obsidian smoke and merlot crimson; not unlike him, in his crisis of duality.

 A mess of contradictions that the team didn’t know what to do with.

(Wide eyed, too sincere, anxious _anxious_ glances as the Paladins of Voltron watched his latest descent into the abyss, the displays of frantic madness)

He didn’t blame them.

To be fair, Keith didn’t really know either.

How could he? He just felt _wrong_ ; trapped in his own skin. He couldn’t trust his own eyes, he couldn’t trust his muddled mind.

_The word you are searching for is unhinged._

_(“Keith, what are you doing?? Are you crazy??”_

_Laughter, laughter.)_

Keith’s existence was a nightmare within a nightmare, wrapped in the tendrils of a daydream. It rang with the intangibility of imagination. He didn’t _want_ to decide which one to reach for.

 _(They_ thought he couldn’t parse their exchanged glances, and worried stares; he could, he _saw_ , he just sometimes couldn’t find it in him to _care_.)

Not when he knew this was all just in his head, and he would wake to the reality of loss and loneliness…

Or to his hands soaked in red; the evidentiary genocide of his people, his _family_.

_Whichever comes first._

His hand, lit in the reds of the celestial dome, resonated in that thought- the anamnesis- too acutely.

He flinched as laughter rang, sharp and echoing outwards, overlapping. A cackle, like his own personal audience, the _laughter reel_ on replay in the confines of his mind.

He lifted his other hand to the window, and pressed both flat; kept his gaze exclusively on the shaking, too thin fingers.

Truth was, these days, Keith merely existed; one moment to the other, reacting as was expected of him, even if the energy behind the motions rang false. Even if they saw, how hollow it was, they made believe.

(Truth was, their fear of seeing the truth of the _thing_ in front of them was palpable.

After all, he was getting _better_ by the day; He _had_ to be.

Truth was, Keith _was_ … just not in the fashion they expected.

So he pretended, and got better at _lying_ , and they smiled, relieved.

 _Too easy._ They thought, he thought, _they_ thought.)

Caught between a black hole, and a supernova waiting to happen, Keith drifted encompassed in their coronae, their gravity. No longer the sun or a star, or comprised of molten lava within… no, he was a nonentity, nowhere as potent as he once was.

He lifted his head, and smiled at the mulberry tint that now edged the sable and scarlet of the surrounding aether. It looked like it cleaved his face in two, reflected in the unstable surface of the airlock.

He tilted his face to the window pane and leaned his forehead into the afterimage.

It was uncomforting, and uncomfortable.

Not unlike him; the _unnova_ ; doomed to float in non-space and spin on its axis until it no longer was.

The unmaking, the unmade.

The nothing.

* * *

 

It took a mere instant, they thought about raising the offense in the collective understanding of Voltron that was hard to explain, and as Lance raised the blaster to the parasite that had overtaken the planet Ffion, something went wrong.

It felt like a crackle of electricity straight into the mind; a pulse with an undercurrent of sharp static.

They screamed as one, and Voltron splintered; the lions plummeting as one became five; streaks of colour bleeding down, ceding to the gravitational core.

It was bedlam; it was agony; like a blaster shot, burning and searing outwards. The pain reverberated like being sliced apart from the inside out, and all the while their ache was mirrored by the sentient beasts bonded to them.

His senses went not white, but it was as if they just stopped reporting to his mind. The landing was rough, and was upon him before the ground even really registered to sight. It was the impact rattling through Lance’s teeth and dawdling in his bones that brought back the _sightsmellsound;_ the ache in his bones, the juddering under his skin, the nervous palpitations in his heart, the electricity in his mind.

Red was no Blue, didn’t do the usual extra support to shelter him from the worst of it, so the way he flipped forward into the control board when Red meteored into the ground was pretty unavoidable; in entire fairness though, Lance didn’t even know if Red had been disabled.

His reactions weren’t quite impulse-based enough for the pace the Red Lion set, and there had been a frantic undertone to Red’s instincts in the past weeks since recovering Keith.

They didn’t seem to connect the way desperation had managed to link them in- in absentia.

Right now, he couldn’t even find the fire in the back of his mind that signified Red’s presence.

“Is everyone okay??” Pidge yelled, frantic in his ears, high-pitched with concern. It rang like a choir had been singing it, instead of one small paladin.

“Yeesh.” He winced, as it reverberated in his head; magnified by the void left by one absent sentient lion, and outlined by the white noise already growing. He put two fingers gingerly to his nose, “Shriek much?” It came away with a thin stream of blood, Lance grimaced as he was forced to wipe it at the leg of his armour. He ignored the pull to his jaw, as he called out “Allura? Shiro?”

“Here.” Allura said, softly, pained.

Shiro just groaned lowly, petering out into a small shaky breath, a quiet assent. “Ye-s”

Lance swallowed, recognizing the tells and moved on, “Hunk, buddy?”

There was silence, and Lance could feel his breath begin to short out, spluttering mind concocting the worst case scenarios within instants.

He could be caught, he could have been downed, his lion lost to the weird ethos of the planet.

“Hunk?” Pidge whispered, an almost fear in their usually bold voice.

He could be gone, he could be dead… he could be lost, in time or space or self...

 _Keith_.

Lance was afraid, he could feel the panic beginning to set in. Beyond the void, the pain, the dread of events unprocessed, he was _terrified_.

“Hunk.” Allura’s voice didn’t shake, in the manner of _unshaking_ that reveals more than the tremor would; the effort put into making it steady, palpable.

Shiro was still just breathing, uneven rasps of sounds that trickled in and out of the comm feed.

Lance only had the time to wonder what having control wrested- from someone who had overcome what Shiro had- must feel like before there was a staticky crackle; before an interrupted gag and a huge heaving breath cut through the buzzing white noise. “…sorry, guys. Hope you didn’t have to hear that one.”

Pidge audibly sighed in relief, “Oh thank science.”

“What _happened,_ guys?” Hunk asked, innocently unaware of the way Lance’s blood was pounding in his head.

Lance switched to his private channel with Allura, “ _Princess_.” If his voice was more of a wheeze than he’d like to admit, well the truth was that Allura didn’t look too good either; her beautiful face pale, and sickly under the sheen of sweat.

She glanced at him, caution in her eyes, asking silently for time as she talked Shiro down from full blown dread, caught in a very different time and place.

Lance heard Shiro take in a stutter of breath, shaking gasps for air, and felt an immeasurable amount of grief for their leader and friend. It took great strength of character and resolve to shoulder all that, and contain it; to keep moving and keep giving… The universe didn’t deserve Shiro.

He cut the connection to the private channel near instantly, to give Shiro the privacy he deserved to regain his composure.

Lance thought, not for the first time that they were in _way_ over their head…None of them, with the exception of Coran, were yet old enough to be dealing with _this_ on this scale… Yet, here they were.

Each a prisoner of their own fears, and trauma and damnation.

Lance was… tired. He half-listened to Hunk and Pidge trying to rationalize this… disbanding of Voltron from one to many, and just drifted.

Allura’s face popped back up on his screen.

He couldn’t even find the strength to raise his head.

The Princess shivered, looking very worried. “Lance…” she said, not mincing words. “I could _feel_ the quintessence of Voltron being ripped apart.”

“I know.” He said, quietly. “I could feel it too.” He could only imagine the intensity with which Allura must have felt it- with her heightened sense of quintessential magic.

“Can… can you…?” He started, only to have Allura smile, kind but oh so tired.

“Of course, Lance.”

She closed her eyes and hummed, and just like that, he felt a purr in the base of his skull. A cooling sensation, yet warm in the way it encompassed him.

“ _Blue_.” Lance murmured, suddenly on the edge of too much emotion, eyes brimming over. With his soul once more in the grasp of the entity where it felt most whole, he let himself feel.

* * *

 

With the Red Lion defunct, and Shiro almost entirely not in the right head space to be responsive, and a vicious parasite trying to devour the lions; Allura called it.

Mission failure; Return to home base.

Another one to hang over her young crowned head, yet another fight left with their tails tucked between their legs.

_Yet another admission of her ineptitude._

Despite the weight of a missed mark, however, Allura knew there was something very off about what they had just experienced. Allura didn’t entirely understand if she was to be honest; a defeat snatched from the jaws of victory.

Voltron forced apart in a moment of utter anguish; The Red Lion, disabled, the Paladin within visibly scrambled; the Black Lion while still active, was unresponsive like Shiro had been; the Yellow, Blue and Green Lions had been fine for the most part, except for how Blue had received Lance’s anguish and linked to Allura, she had felt it in excruciating detail atop the feedback from the manipulated quintessence.

Allura had been… still was… overwhelmed.

Lance was breaking; Shiro was shaken and shaking. Hunk and Pidge, while great at hashing out strategies and gameplans, lacked the sheer fire power of the Black and Red Lions and their pilots.

The Blue Lion too, was occupied with its true Paladin.

And Allura… she was alone; left mirroring the pain of her Paladins, and the strange ozone scent of quintessence rankling at her finer Altean senses; crawling over her skin like the brush of rushed fingers.

She shuddered at its curious caress, and felt herself bowing under the weight.

Allura had only ever felt the mantle of _Princess_ weigh this heavy at two other times; the day she had destroyed her father’s AI, and the day they had lost Keith.

 _Keith_.

Her eyes snapped open, and though she couldn’t see it, they glowed with the same quintessential energy; brighter than her usual lapis.

Marmora.

Allura straightened her back as she reached for the beeper to contact Kollivan, and as her shoulders locked back into place, she felt less helpless, less alone.

* * *

 

Keith could feel his pulse acutely; a sledgehammer against his skull, brutal and bruising.

He felt… drawn.

He stood, feet coming under him without his prompting; his awareness distant.

His senses felt as if they had been blurred out, they were short circuiting at the edges; sensation coming in fits and starts.

_This isn’t right._

The thought too rang weirdly, echoed hollowly as if enclosed in a confined space.

Keith took one step, then another; one more as he crossed Coran- a tray laden in space food in his hands.

Coran looked confused, and yet said nothing, averting his eyes.

Keith kept walking.

His blood was thrumming as if to keep time with a distant external entity; a rhythmic thumping that was just the barest bit too out of sync to be his pulse, or another’s heartbeat.

It listed weirdly to one side, although Keith couldn’t say how exactly he had reached that conclusion.

He walked through the doorway to the hangar, into a rapidly unfurling scene.

The Lions were landing, like leaves in disarray; yellow and green like shades of autumn, blue like the crystalline clarity of the rain atop them, black like winter decay. All save the one, red like forest fire which was deposited- from the end of a nightmare purple tractor beam- far too close to where Keith stood.

What remained of his hair whipped madly across his face from the fluctuating air pressure, sharp like the edge of a knife; He was too numb to really feel it.

“Keith?” someone said, and Keith truly couldn’t place it.

He didn’t even try to.

He merely blinked slowly, and allowed himself to be steered by the alien instinct alone.

He kept walking.

* * *

 

The minute Keith ignored Shiro’s calling his name - ignored Red and kept walking- was the moment that sense of wrongness descended once more.

There was nothing of Keith in the expression on his face, utterly blank, eyebrows still and unexpressive; there was no familiarity to be found in the way he moved, impersonal and unfeeling.

There was nothing up until he stopped in front of his apparent destination.

The Black Lion.

Shiro felt his heart sink under the weight of the worst kind of certainty; fear.

Keith tilted his head up at the still Lion, the fabled head of Voltron; and the moment was almost as if a surreal painting had been paused in motion.

The previously unresponsive Black Lion flickered to life, mouth frozen mid roar, perched as if about to pounce. He glowed with the promise of quintessence, but it was as if the pledge was left just shy of fulfilled. It oscillated between life and stasis; blinking frantically, like a beacon, like a signal for help.

Save Our Souls.

The lambent incandescence burned into Shiro’s eyes, framing only Keith in its presence; backlighting him and the shadows on Keith’s haunted face, the obsidian strokes of his hair, the vacant eyes glowing the precise shade of the amethyst light emanated by the Lion.

Shiro rooted, watched as Keith- still unnervingly detached- tilted his head a fraction to the right, eyeing Black as he stepped forward, hand raised.

The minute Keith made contact, the Lion’s quintessence snuffed itself out.

The room went dark, and lifeless in the aftermath of the searing luminescence.

Shiro blinked rapidly, trying to shake the spots from his vision; the afterimage of Keith’s back and disconcerting non-expression scorched behind his eyes.

He had eyes for no one else.

Keith held stagnant, unmoving, hand on Black’s muzzle for a beat longer; then as if his strings had been cut, he crumpled- knees giving out under him- inanimate.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know that much about space, although i love it and i try. Can you tell? heh.
> 
> If there are any glaring inconsistencies despite my careful researching, please let me know! 
> 
> Thanks for reading !

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, Kudos, Support?  
> I'm always kind of unsure if what i'm trying to convey is coming across right, so leave comments/kudos and let me know what you're picking up on? Or even just encouragement would be pretty kickass. (Please validate me *makes pathetic face* )
> 
> Now with fanart:  
> For chapter 11 by the wonderful [Maiiyoz](https://maiiyoz.tumblr.com/post/177547628730/fan-art-for-this-absolutely-amazing-fic-by)
> 
> Alternatively, come scream at me on tumblr @ [theincrediblesulkmachine](http://theincrediblesulkmachine.tumblr.com)


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